txbravy  of  Che  theological  £min<xvy 

PRINCETON  •  NEW  JERSEY 


PRESENTED  BY 

Robert  R.  Goodrich 

"PSI772 
.135 


% 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2014 


https://archive.org/details/inhisnamestoryofOOhale 


In   his  Name. 


A    STORY  OF  THE 

WALDENSES, 

SEVEN  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO. 


BY 

E.   E.  HALE. 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 
1S95. 


£ntered  according  to  Ac*,  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

TROPRIKTOXS  OF  "  OLD  AND  NEW," 

1 1  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washineton 


University  Press: 
John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP  FAQK 

I.    Felicte   5 

II.    Jean  Waldo   21 

III.  The  Florentine   32 

IV.  Up  to  the  Hills   60 

V.  Lost  and  Found   80 

VI.    The  Charcoal-Burner   89 

VII.   John  of  Lugio   103 

VIII.    The  Troubadour   144 

IX.    Christmas  Eve   196 

X.    Christmas  Dawns   228 

XI.    Twelfth  Night   246 

XII.    The  Whole  Story   259 

Appendix                              .    .    .  267 


IN    HIS  NAME. 


CHAPTER  L 

FELICIE. 

Felicie  was  the  daughter  of  Jean  Waldo.  She 
was  the  joy  of  her  father's  life,  and  the  joy  of  the 
life  of  Madame  Gabrielle,  his  wife.  She  was  well 
named  Felicie;  for  she  was  happy  herself,  and  she 
made  everybody  happy.  She  was  a  sunbeam  in 
the  house,  in  the  workshops,  in  the  court-yard,  and 
among  all  the  neighbors.  Her  father  and  mother 
were  waked  in  the  morning  by  her  singing ;  and 
many  a  time,  when  Jean  Waldo  was  driving  a  hard 
bargain  with  some  spinner  from  the  country,  the 
mere  sight  of  his  pretty  daughter  as  she  crossed 
the  court -yard,  and  the  sound  of  her  voice  as  she 
sang  a  scrap  of  a  hymn  or  of  a  crusading  song, 
would  turn  his  attention  from  his  barter,  and  he 
would  relax  his  hold  on  the  odd  sols  and  deniers 


6 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


as  if  he  had  never  clung  to  them.  By  the  sanio 
spells  she  was  the  joy  of  the  neighborhood.  The 
beggars  loved  her,  the  weavers  loved  her,  she  could 
come  and  go  as  she  chose  even  among  the  fullers 
and  dyers,  though  they  were  rough  fellows ; ,  and 
there  was  nothing  she  could  not  say  or  do  with 
their  wives  and  children.  When  the  country  spin 
ners  came  in  with  their  yarn,  or  the  weavers  with 
their  webs,  they  would  wait,  on  one  excuse  or 
another,  really  to  get  a  word  with  her  ;  and  many 
was  the  rich  farm  in  the  valley  to  which  Felicie 
went  in  the  summer  or  autumn  to  make  a  long 
visit  as  she  chose.  Felicie  was  queen  of  her  fath 
er's  household  and  of  all  around. 

On  one  of  the  last  days  in  December,  Felicie 
was  making  a  pilgrimage,  after  her  own  fashion, 
to  the  church  of  St.  Thomas  of  Fourvieres.  The 
hill  of  Fourvieres  is  a  bold  height,  rising  almost 
from  the  heart  of  the  old  city  of  Lyons.  And  Fe- 
licie liked  nothing  better  than  a  brisk  scramble  to 
the  top,  where,  as  she  said,  she  might  see  some- 
thing. This  was  her  almost  daily  "  pilgrimage." 
She  gave  it  this  name  in  sport,  not  irreverent 
For,  as  she  went,  she  always  passed  by  old  women 


IN  H/S  NAME. 


7 


who  were  making  a  pilgrimage,  as  they  do  to  thia 
hour,  to  the  church  of  St.  Thomas  (now  tLe  church 
of  "  Our  Lady  "),  which  was  supposed,  and  is  sup 
posed,  to  have  great  power  in  saving  from  misfor- 
tune those  who  offer  their  prayers  there.  Feli- 
cie  in  passing  always  looked  into  the  little  church, 
and  crossed  herself  with  holy  water,  and  fell  on 
her  knees  at  an  altar  in  a  little  chapel  ^here  was 
a  picture  of  St.  Fe'licie  lying  on  the  ground,  with 
a  vision  of  Our  Lady  above.  The  Fe'licie  who 
was  not  a  saint  would  say  "  Ave  Maria"  here,  and 
"  Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven,"  and  would  wait 
a  minute  upon  her  knees  to  "  see  if  her  Father  had 
any  thing  to  say  to  her ; "  and  then  would  cross 
herself  again,  and,  as  she  passed  the  great  altar, 
would  kneel  once  more,  and  so  would  be  out  in 
the  fresh  air  again. 

This  was  almost  an  every-day  occurrence.  On 
this  day  Fe'licie  waited  a  little  longer.  Among  a 
thousand  votive  offerings  in  the  church,  hung 
there  by  those  who  were  grateful  for  an  answer  to 
their  prayers,  she  saw  to-day  two  which  she  had 
never  seen  before.  They  were  pictures,  —  not, 
to  tell  the  truth,  very  well  painted.    But  to  Fe'licie. 


8 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


the  finer  or  coarser  art  was  a  matter  of  very  little 
account.  Each  of  them  represented  a  scene  of 
preservation  in  danger.  In  one  of  them,  a  young 
girl,  hardly  older  than  Felicie  herself,  was  to  be 
seen,  as  she  safely  floated  from  a  river  which  bore 
the  ruins  of  a  broken  bridge ;  in  the  other,  a 
young  knight  on  horseback  received  unhuit  the 
blows  of  five  terrible  Saracens.  The  Holy  Mother 
could  be  seen  in  the  clouds  with  a  staff  on  her 
arm,  turning  off  the  lances  of  the  Paynim.  Felicie 
looked  a  moment  at  this  picture,  but  long,  very 
long,  at  the  other. 

The  disaster  which  it  represented  was  one 
which  the  girl  had  seen  herself,  and  which  had 
made  upon  her  an  impression  for  her  life.  Only 
the  year  before,  Richard  the  Lion-hearted  and 
Philip  Augustus  of  France  had  come  to  Lyons  to- 
gether, each  with  a  splendid  retinue  of  knights 
and  other  soldiers,  on  their  way  to  the  crusade. 
The  Archbishop  of  Lyons  was  then  really  an  in- 
dependent prince,  and  with  all  the  dignity  of  an 
independent  prince  he  had  received  the  two  kings. 
There  had  been  much  feasting.  There  had  been 
a  splendid  ceremony  of  high  mass  in  the  cathedral, 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


9 


dnd  at  hist,  when  the  two  armies  had  recruited 
themselves,  it  was  announced  that  they  were  to 
take  up  their  march  to  the  Holy  City.  Of  course 
all  Lyons  was  on  the  watch  to  see  the  display. 
Some  were  in  boats  upon  the  river ;  some  were 
waiting  to  see  them  cross  the  bridge  ;  some  walked 
far  out  on  the  road.  Girls  with  flowers  threw  them 
before  the  horse  of  the  handsome  English  king, 
and  priests  in  splendid  robes  carried  the  banners 
of  the  churches  and  sang  anthems  as  they  went. 
And  all  Lyons,  young  and  old,  was  sure  that  in 
two  or  three  short  months  this  famous  host  would 
be  in  the  City  of  our  Lord ! 

Alas,  and  alas !  Hardly  had  the  two  kings 
themselves  crossed  the  bridge,  and  a  few  of  their 
immediate  attendants  with  them,  when,  as  the  great 
crowd  of  towns-people  pressed  in  upon  the  men- 
at-arms,  all  eager  to  see  the  show,  they  felt 
beneath  their  feet  a  horrid  tremor  for  one  mo 
ment,  and  then  —  first  one  length  of  the  bridge, 
and  then,  in  terrible  succession,  two  others,  gave 
way,  and  the  whole  multitude  —  soldiers,  horses, 
men,  women,  and  children — were  plunged  into 
the  Rhone  below.     The  torrent  was  fast,  and 


10 


IN  HIS  NAM 


swept  the  ruin  of  timbers  and  the  mass  of  strug- 
gling people  and  beasts  down  in  horrible  confusion. 
The  boatmen  on  the  river  did  their  best  to  rescue 
one  and  another,  but  were  themselves  in  danger 
almost  equal  to  that  of  those  who  were  struggling  " 
in  the  water.  The  kings  turned  their  horses  and 
rode  to  the  shore,  but  were  as  powerless  as  chil- 
dren to  help  or  even  to  command.  And  so,  in 
one  short  hour,  this  day  of  glory  and  of  victory 
was  shrouded  as  in  clouds  of  darkness. 

It  seemed  a  miracle,  indeed,  that  only  a  few 
were  drowned  in  the  chaos  3  but  of  those  who  were 
rescued,  many  were  maimed  for  life,  and  there  was 
not  a  house  in  Lyons  but  had  its  own  tale  of  dan- 
ger and  suffering. 

The  picture  which  Felicie  stopped  to  look  at  in 
the  church  of  St.  Thomas  represented  this  calam 
ity,  and  the  preservation,  by  what  was  called 
miracle,  of  Gabrielle  L'Estrange,  a  god-child  of 
Felicie's  mother.  For  herself,  Felicie  had  seen 
the  breaking  of  the  bridge  from  the  safe  distance 
of  her  eyry  on  the  mountain.  The  ghl  had  wisely 
seen  that  even  her  fathers  good-will  could  not  do 
much  for  a  child  like  her  in  the  crowd.    She  had 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


II 


declared  her  determination  to  see  the  whole  ;  and 
while  others  went  into  the  streets  to  see  the  ar/nies 
pass  them,  Felicie  had  perched  herself  on  the  very 
top  of  the  hill  Fourvieres,  where  she  could  see 
every  company  join  in  the  cortege,  where  she 
could  hear  the  blast  of  music  come  up  to  her  from 
the  plain. 

As  she  sat  here,  as  the  army  began  to  cross  the 
river,  the  girl  had  been  instantly  conscious  of  the 
great  disaster.  She  could  see  the  companies  in 
the  rear  break  their  ranks  and  rush  towards  the 
stream.  She  could  see  the  dust  of  the  ruin  rise 
above  the  river,  and  could  hear  the  hoarse  shout- 
ing of  people  screaming  and  commanding.  She 
had  guessed  what  the  calamity  was,  and  had 
hurried  home  to  meet  only  too  many  stories  of 
personal  sorrow.  Before  night  they  had  known 
how  Gabrielle  had  been  nearly  lost,  and  how  she 
had  been  saved.  And  all  the  mingled  memories 
of  that  day  of  glory  and  of  grief  came  back  to  Fe'- 
iicie  again,  now  that  she  saw  the  picture  of  her 
playmate's  preservation. 

She  left  the  little  church,  crossing  herself  again 
with  the  holy  water,  a  little  more  thoughtful  than 


12 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


she  entered  it.  The  "problem  of  evil"  crossed 
her  mind  ;  and  she  asked  herself  why  the  Virgin 
should  interpose  to  save  Gabrielle,  when  others 
were  left  to  perish.  But  she  did  not  ask  this  with 
bitterness.  She  knew  there  was  answer  some- 
where. And  as  she  climbed  yet  higher  up  the 
hill,  and  came  out  on  the  glories  of  her  eyry, 
the  wonders  of  the  winter  prospect  —  more  beau- 
tiful than  ever,  as  she  thought  —  swept  away  all 
memories  of  death  or  sorrow  or  doubt ;  and  the 
child  wrapped  her  thick  shawl  round  her,  as  she 
sat  beneath  the  shelter  of  a  friendly  wall,  with  the 
full  sunlight  blazing  on  her,  to  wonder  for  the 
thousandth  time  on  the  beauty  of  the  panorama 
beyond  and  below. 

There  are  who  say  that  no  view  in  France  can 
equal  it ;  and  I  am  sure  I  do  not  wonder.  At 
her  feet  the  cheerful  city  lay  between  the  rivers 
Saone  and  Rhone,  which  meet  here,  just  below  her. 
The  spires  and  towers  of  the  cathedral  and  the 
churches,  even  the  tallest  columns  of  smoke,  as 
they  rose  in  the  still  air,  were  all  far,  far  below 
the  girl  on  her  eyry.  Beyond,  she  could  see  at 
first  large  farms  with  their  granges,  their  immense 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


13 


hay  stacks,  their  barns,  and  their  orchards.  She 
could  pick  out  and  name  one  and  another  where 
at  the  vintage  and  at  harvest  she  had  made  pleas- 
ant visits  this  very  year.  Further,  all  became 
brown  and  purple  and  blue  and  gray.  Sometimes 
on  a  hill  she  could  make  out  a  white  church-tower, 
or  the  long  walls  of  a  castle,  —  just  some  sign 
that  men  and  women  and  happy  girls  like  herself 
lived  there.  But  Felicie's  eye  did  not  rest  so  long 
on  these.  Far  above  and  still  beyond  —  oh,  how 
far  beyond  !  —  was  her  "old  friend,"  as  the  girl 
called  Mont  Blanc.  And  to-day  he  had  his  rosy 
face,  she  said.  The  sunset  behind  her  was  making 
the  snow  of  the  mountain  blush  with  beauty.  And 
nothing  can  be  conceived  more  dreamy  and  more 
lovely  than  this  "vision,"  as  Felicie  called  it, 
which  even  she  did  not  see  five  times  in  a  year 
from  her  eyry;  and  which  many  a  lazy  canon 
and  abbot,  and  many  a  prosperous  weaver  like 
her  father,  and  many  a  thrifty  merchant  in  the 
town,  had  never  seen  at  all. 

"Good-evening,  dear  old  friend,"  said  the  girl, 
laughing,  as  if  the  mountain  could  hear  her  ninety 
miles  away,  —  "good-evening,   dear  old  friend 


54 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


You  are  lovely  to-night  in  your  evening  dresa 
Will  you  not  come  to  my  Christmas  party  ?  Thank 
you,  old  friend,  for  coming  out  to-night  to  see  me 
I  should  have  been  very  lonely  without  you,  dear 
old  friend.  There's  a  kiss  for  you  !  —  and  there's 
another !  —  and  there's  a  feather  for  you,  and 
there's  another !  "  And  she  threw  into  the  west 
wind  two  bits  of  down,  and  pleased  herself  with 
watching  them  as  they  floated  high  and  quick 
towards  the  mountain  in  the  east.  "Good-by, 
dear  old  friend,  good-by.  Mamma  says  I  must  be 
home  at  sunset.  Won't  you  speak  to  me  ?  —  no 
matter  ;  all  the  same  I  know  you  love  me.  Good- 
by  !  good-by !  "  And  so  she  tripped  down,  think- 
ing to  herself  as  she  went  that  everybody  and 
every  thing  did  love  her,  which  was  very  true 
thinking  that  for  her,  indeed,  God's  kingdom 
seemed  to  have  come,  and  his  will  to  be  done  on 
earth  as  it  was  in  heaven.  And  the  shadow,  if 
it  may  be  called  a  shadow,  of  the  horrors  depicted 
in  the  church  of  St.  Thomas  was  all  swept  away* 
Down  she  tripped  again  by  the  open  churchi 
and  one  after  another  beggar  at  the  door  blessed 
her  as  she  said,  "God  bless  you."    Down  she 


IN  Hl±>  NAME. 


T5 


tripped  by  the  convent  walls,  and  wondered  how 
the  gardens  within  could  be  half  as  beautiful  as 
the  world  without.  And  she  wondered  if  the  sis- 
ters here  climbed  up  the  bell-tower  and  looked  of! 
on  the  eastern  horizon  to  see  her  old  friend,  and 
whether  they  knew  how  friendly  he  was  to  those 
who  loved  him.  Down  she  tripped  by  one  zigzag 
path  and  another,  known  to  her  and  to  the  goats 
and  to  none  beside  \  and  so,  before  the  sun  was 
fairly  down,  she  had  nodded  to  Pierre  the  weaver, 
and  had  stopped  and  spoken  to  Ronet  the  dyer, 
and  had  caught  up  and  kissed  the  twin  babies 
who  could  hardly  tottle  along  the  road,  whom 
Marguerite  the  wife  of  young  Stephen  was  leading 
along  ;  she  had  said  a  merry  word  to  half  the 
workmen  and  half  their  wives,  and  had  come  into 
the  court-yard,  and  had  pushed  back  the  stately 
heavy  oak  door,  and  stood  in  the  hall  of  Jean 
Waldo's  comfortable  house. 

Her  mother  came  running  out  from  the  kitchen 
wing  to  meet  the  girl.  And  Felicie  ran  up  to  kiss 
her  as  she  entered,  as  was  her  pretty  way.  And 
Mistress  Gabrielle  thought,  as  she  had  thought  a 
thousand  times,  that  nobody  in  the  world  was  a* 


/6  TN  HTS  NAME. 

pretty  as  Felicie,  and  also  that  Felicie  never  had 
looked  as  pretty  as  she  did  at  that  very  moment. 
This  also  had  Madame  Gabrielle  thought  a  thou- 
sand times  before.  The  girl's  tightly-fitting  tunic 
was  of  fine  white  woollen.  But  the  cape,  as  in 
those  days  the  mantle  began  to  be  called,  also  of 
woollen,  was  of  the  brightest  scarlet,  and,  as  she 
had  wound  it  round  and  round  her  head,  she  be- 
came a  Red  Riding-hood  indeed.  Her  cheeks 
glowed  with  life  and  health  as  she  came  running 
in  from  the  frosty  air,  and  the  sharp  contrast  of 
her  dress  was  none  too  bold  for  a  complexion  so 
brilliant.  It  was  the  very  impersonation  of  life 
and  joy. 

"  Felicie,  my  child,  I  have  been  asking  for  you. 
It  is  St.  Victoria's  night,  you  know,  and  I  am 
giving  to  them  all  their  Christmas  medicine." 

"  Medicine  for  me,  my  dear  mother !  "  And 
truly  the  child  seemed  to  need  medicine  as  little 
as  the  larks. 

"  Of  course,  dear  Felicie.  Has  there  been  a 
midsummer  or  a  Christmas  since  you  were  born 
in  which  I  did  not  give  you  your  medicine?  And 
so  is  it,  thanks  to  the  blessed  Virgin  and  to  St. 


IN  HIS  NAMF 


>7 


Fe'licie,  that  you  are  so  fresh  and  so  well.  I  have 
given  to  your  father  and  to  all  the  men  their 
gentian.  I  have  given  to  all  the  women  their  St. 
Johnswort,  and  here  is  a  nice  new  bottle  of  the 
mixture  of  lavender  and  rosemary,  which  I  brewed 
for  you  when  you  were  away  with  the  Landrys. 
I  have  it  all  waiting." 

Felicie  knew  by  long  experience  that  there  was 
no  good  in  argument.  Indeed  the  child  was  too 
much  used  to  doing  what  her  mother  bade  to  make 
argument  at  any  time.  This  was  but  a  gulp  o* 
two  of  a  disagreeable  taste,  and  she  knew  there 
would  be  waiting  a  honey-cake  and  an  orange 
after  it.  So  she  kissed  her  mother^  ran  upstairs 
and  put  away  cape  and  wimple  and  girdle,  and 
came  downstairs  singing :  — 

My  lady  came  down  from  her  pretty  gay  room, 

In  the  hall  my  lady  sat  down  ; 
Her  apron  was  heaped  with  the  roses  in  bloom, 

And  her  fingers  braided  a  crown,  crown,  crown  I 
And  her  ringers  braided  a  crown  ! 

u  But,  mamma  !  how  much  there  is  of  it.  I 
wcver  had  so  much  before  !  " 

<l  Darling,  you  are  older  now.    You  have  passed 

2 


1 3  IN  HIS  NAME. 

your  second  climacteric."  Mistress  Gabriellfc 
could  be  learned  when  she  chose. 

"  But,  mamma,  it  tastes  horridly.  It  nevei 
tasted  so  badly  before." 

"  Dear  child,  drink  it  right  down.  Here  is 
your  orange,  to  take  the  taste  away.  Perhaps  it 
is  a  little  stronger  than  we  have  made  it.  The 
leaves  were  the  very  best  I  ever  saw." 

And  the  dear  child  made  a  laughing  face  of 
disgust,  and  then  gulped  down  the  bitter  mixture 
as  she  was  bidden. 

But  then  all  light  faded  from  her  face.  With 
agony  such  as  her  mother  never  saw  there,  she 
screamed,  "  O  mamma,  dear  mamma  !  —  it  burns 
me,  it  burns  me  !  —  you  never  hurt  your  darling 
so  before ! "  And  with  sobs  she  could  not  re- 
press, she  hid  her  face  in  her  mother's  bosom, 
crying  out,  "  Oh,  how  it  burns,  how  it  burns  ! 99 

Mistress  Gabrielle  was  frightened  indeed.  She 
tore  open  the  orange,  but  there  was  little  comfort 
there.  She  sent  for  oils  and  for  snow,  and  for 
cold  water  from  the  very  bottom  of  the  well.  But 
the  child's  agony  seemed  hardly  checked ;  and 
though  with  a  resolute  will  she  would  choke  dowr 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


*9 


her  groans  that  she  might  not  terrify  her  mothei, 
it  was  impossible  for  her  to  check  the  quivering 
from  head  to  foot,  which  was  a  sign  of  the  torture 
of  mouth  and  throat  and  stomach.  Mistress 
Gabrielle  called  for  Jeanne  and  Marie,  and  they 
carried  the  poor  child  to  her  bed.  They  put  hot 
cloths  upon  her.  They  warmed  her  feet  and  her 
hands.  They  made  smokes  of  gums  and  barks 
for  her  to  breathe.  They  tried  all  the  simple  and 
all  the  complicated  arts  of  the  household.  One 
and  another  neighbor  was  hurried  in,  and  each 
contradicted  the  other,  and  each  advised. 

One  or  other  of  the  more  powerful  applications 
would  give  a  moment's  relief,  but  only  a  moment's. 
Tears  which  she  could  not  check  would  roll  dowo 
Fe'licie's  cheek  to  show  her  inward  torture,  and 
that  terrible  quiver  which  Mistress  Gabrielle 
learned  to  dread  so  horribly  would  come  in  with 
every  third  or  fourth  minute.  Once  and  again 
she  had  sent  for  Jean  Waldo,  her  husband.  But 
none  of  the  lads  could  find  him.  Night  had 
closed  dark  around  them,  and  he  did  not  return. 
It  was  then  that  she  took  the  responsibility  which 
she  had  never  taken  before,  and  sent  for  the 


20 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


young  Florentine  doctor,  whose  shop,  next  th' 
cathedral,  attracted  the  wonder  and  superstitior 
of  all  the  neighborhood.  "  Bid  him  come,  Adrian, 
on  the  moment !  Tell  him  that  my  daughter  is 
dying,  and  that  he  has  not  a  moment  to  lose. 
For  the  love  of  Christ,  beg  him  to  come  on  the 
instant."  Dying  ■  The  word  struck  new  terror 
in  the  whole  panic-swayed  household.  Everybody 
had  been  in  distress,  but  no  one  had  dared  think 
or  say  that  the  darling  of  them  all,  but  just  now 
so  strong  and  so  happy,  could  die  !  Least  of  all 
had  Mistress  Gabrielle  permitted  herself  to  think 
it.  But  now  all  her  pride  of  simples  and  com- 
pounds has  gone,  all  the  scorn  with  which  she 
had  defied  one  or  another  leech  as  she  walked  by 
them  in  the  street.  Niobe  before  Apollo  was  not 
more  prostrate.  She  knew  that  if  the  Florentine 
was  to  render  any  help,  it  must  be  rendered  right 
soon.  And  so,  with  a  calmness  of  despair  at 
which  she  wondered  herself,  she  sent  word  to  hiia 
that  her  daughter  was  dying. 


idV  HIS  NAME. 


21 


CHAPTER  II. 

JEAN  WALDO. 

Giilio,  the  Florentine  doctor,  came  down  the 
street  with  the  boy  who  had  been  sent  for  him, 
and  with  a  blackamoor  who  bore  a  great  hampet 
which  contained  his  medicines  and  his  instru- 
ments. As  they  rapidly  approached  the  doorway 
they  overtook  Jean  Waldo  himself,  slowly  walking 
the  same  way.  Till  they  spoke  to  him,  the  father 
was  wholly  unconscious  of  the  calamity  Which  had 
fallen  on  his  child. 

If  you  had  told  Jean  Waldo  that  afternoon,  as 
he  sat  in  the  Treasurer's  seat  at  the  guild-meet- 
ing, that,  in  after  times,  his  name  of  Waldo  would 
be  best  known  to  all  people,  in  all  lands,  because 
lis  kinsman,  Pierre  Waldo,  bore  it,  he  would  have 
been  much  amazed,  and  would  have  taken  you  for 
a  fool.  Kinsmen  they  were,  there  was  no  doubt  of 
that.  Nobody  could  look  on  their  faces  —  nay,  even 


22 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


on  their  eyes  or  their  beards,  or  on  the  shape  of  theii 
hands  or  their  finger-nails,  —  and  not  see  that  there 
was  near  kindred  between  them.  "  We  are  both 
from  the  valley  of  Vaud,"  Jean  Waldo  used  to  say 
when  people  questioned  him.  But  he  was  not 
pleased  to  have  them  question  him.  He  had  taken 
good  care  not  to  mix  himself  up  with  Pierre  WTaldo's 
heresies.  "  Why  does  he  want  to  trouble  himself 
about  the  priests  ? "  said  Jean  Waldo.  "  Why 
does  he  not  do  as  I  do  ?  I  take  care  of  myself, 
and  I  let  other  people  take  care  of  themselves. 
Why  cannot  Pierre  Waldo,  my  kinsman,  if  he  is 
my  kinsman,  do  as  I  do  ?  "  And  so  Jean  Waldo 
went  on  in  his  prosperous  way.  He  squeezed 
down  the  spinners  who  brought  yarn  to  him.  He 
squeezed  the  weavers  who  brought  him  webs. 
He  kept  a  good  company  of  the  best  workmen  in 
his  shops,  and  he  had  forty  looms  of  his  own,  with 
his  own  weavers.  He  put  up  linen  cloths  for 
market  more  neatly  and  handsomely,  the  traders 
said,  than  any  man  in  Lyons,  and  so  he  prospered 
exceedingly.  "This  is  what  comes,"  he  said, 
"  of  minding  your  own  business,  and  letting  othel 
people's  business  alone." 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


23 


Pierre  Waldo,  the  kinsman  of  whom  Jean  spoke 
with  such  contempt,  and  who  is  now  remembered  in 
all  the  world  where  the  Christian  religion  is  known, 
had  been  a  prosperous  merchant  in  Lyons.  But 
Pierre  Waldo  was  not  one  of  those  who  went  to 
mass  only  because  the  priests  bade  him.  He 
went  to  the  mass  because  God  had  been  good  to  him 
and  to  his,  and  he  wanted  to  express  his  thanks. 
He  was  glad  to  express  thanks  as  other  people 
did  and  where  they  did.  He  had  always  had  a 
passion  for  reading,  for  in  his  boyhood  his  mother 
had  taught  him  to  read.  And  when,  one  day,  a 
parchment  book  came  in  his  way,  which  proved 
to  be  an  Evangelistary,  or  copy  of  the  Four  Gos- 
pels, in  Latin,  Pierre  Waldo  began  to  try  to  read 
this,  and  with  wonder  and  delight  which  cannot 
be  told.  Father  John  of  Lugio,  the  priest  whom 
he  knew  best,  an  honest  man  and  an  humble 
priest,  was  willing  to  help  Pierre  as  he  could 
trx/at  the  Latin.  And  there  was  not  so  much 
difference  in  those  days  between  Latin  and  the 
Romance  language  which  half  Pierre  Waldo's 
customers  used,  that  he  should  find  it  hard  to 
cake  out  die  language  in  which  the  book  was 


24 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


written  that  so  excited  him.  When  Father  John 
saw  how  much  pleasure  Pierre  Waldo  took  in 
such  reading,  he  was  glad  to  show  to  him,  in  the 
church  and  in  the  vestry,  other  parchments,  in 
which  were  Paul's  letters  and  the  Book  ot  the 
Revelation.  And  at  last  Pierre  had  seen  the 
whole  of  the  Old  Testament  also,  and  he  and 
the  good  priest  had  read  some  parts  of  the  Old 
Law. 

Who  shall  say  whether  this  knowledge  of  the 
Bible  could  ever  have  come  to  any  thing  with 
Pierre  Waldo,  but  for  a  terrible  incident  which 
made  its  mark  on  his  whole  life  ?  He  and  the 
other  merchants  of  his  section  of  the  town  used 
to  meet  each  other  very  often  at  little  feasts,  in 
which  they  showed  their  hospitality  and  wealth  at 
the  same  time,  in  the  elegance  of  the  sendee,  the 
richness  of  the  food,  and  in  the  choice  of  the  good 
old  wine.  A  party  of  them  were  together  one 
night  at  such  a  feast  in  the  house  of  Robert  the 
Gascon.  They  had  eaten  a  hearty  supper.  The 
wine  had  passed  freely,  and  one  of  the  company, 
«.  favorite  with  all  of  them,  had  sung  a  love  song 
such  as  the  romances  of  the  day  were  full  o£ 


IN  II1S  NAME. 


25 


The  glasses  clattered  in  the  applause,  and  one 
md  another  of  the  guests  bade  him  sing  it  again. 
But  for  some  reason  Walter,  the  singer,  declined. 
The  moment  he  said  "  No/'  William  Jal,  an  old 
and  near  friend  of  Pieire  Waldo,  who  was  sitting 
at  his  side  at  the  table,  rose  and  said,  with  a  loud 
laugh,  "You  shall  sing  it,  Walter !  "  And  he 
brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table,  and  with  this 
terrible  oath  he  went  on,  — 

"  By  God,  you  shall  sing  it,  Walter,  or  I  will 
nevei  taste  wine  again  !  " 

Hardly  had  the  awful  words  left  his  mouth  when 
the  expression  of  his  face  changed  in  sudden 
agony.  He  seemed  to  try  to  balance  himself  at 
the  table  for  an  instant,  and  then  fell  dead  upon 
the  floor. 

From  that  moment  Pierre  Waldo  was  a  new 
man.  In  the  night  of  horror  which  followed  this 
scene  of  mockery  and  revel,  in  his  wretched  efforts 
to  comfort  the  widow  to  whom  they  carried  the 
cold  corpse  home,  and  the  poor  children  who 
were  waked  trom  their  beds  to  look  upon  it,  — 
in  that  night  of  horror  Pierre  Waldo  had  chance 
to  look  forward  and  to  look  backward.    Anc3.  he 


26 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


did  so.  From  that  time  forward  his  reading  oi 
the  Gospel  was  no  mere  literary  amusement.  He 
copied  it  for  his  own  use  ;  he  translated  it  for  his 
neighbors'  use.  He  found  that  other  men,  anx- 
ious and  pious,  had  already  felt  as  he  began  to 
feel,  —  that  all  the  people  had  a  right  to  parable, 
to  psalm,  and  to  the  words  of  the  blessed  Master. 
One  after  another  of  his  customers  brought  him, 
from  one  and  another  town  where  they  travelled, 
bits  of  Paul  or  Matthew  or  Luke  which  had  been 
translated  into  the  vulgar  language.  Pierre 
Waldo's  home  and  his  warehouse  became  the 
centre  of  those  who  sought  a  purer  and  simpler 
life.  For  himself,  after  that  dreadful  night  with 
the  fatherless  children  and  their  mother,  Pierre 
Waldo  said  he  would  give  all  he  had  to  the  poor. 
Whoever  was  in  need  in  Lyons  or  in  the  country 
round  came  to  him  for  advice  and  for  help,  and 
they  gained  it.  If  they  came  for  food,  they  had 
food,  —  always  they  found  a  friend. 

Almost  all  the  company  of  merchants  who  were 
with  Pierre  on  that  night  joined  him  in  this  service 
of  those  that  were  in  need.  The  company  ol 
tbem  began  to  be  called,  and  called  themselves, 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


27 


the  "Poor  Men  of  Lyons."  They  had  no  new 
religion.  Their  religion  was  what  they  found  in 
the  Saviour's  words  to  the  young  nobleman,  to 
Peter  the  fisherman,  and  to  Mary  Magdalene. 
And  so  taken  were  they  with  these  words,  that 
they  read  them  to  all  who  came  for  help  to  them, 
and  were  eager  to  copy  them  out  in  the  people's 
language,  and  give  the  copies  to  all  who  would 
carry  them  into  the  country. 

Almost  at  the  same  time,  Francisco  of  Assis' 
was  moved  in  much  the  same  way  to  give  up  all 
he  had  to  the  poor,  and  to  preach  the  gospel  of 
poverty.  If  these  two  men  had  come  together  ! 
But  it  does  not  appear  that  they  ever  heard  each 
other's  names. 

No  !  At  that  time  Lyons  was  governed  wholly 
by  the  great  religious  corporation  which  was 
known  as  the  Chapter  of  St.  John,  under  the 
Archbishop,  wfto  was  in  fact  a  prince,  and  as  a 
prince  governed  the  city  and  the  country  at  his 
will.  When  he  found  that  the  merchants  were 
entering  on  the  business  of  distributing  the  Script- 
ures and  reading  them  to  the  people,  the  Arch- 
bishop and  the  Chapter  forbade  it.    The  "  Pool 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


Men  of  Lyons  "  must  leave  that  business  to  tb* 
clergy. 

Pierre  and  his  friends  were  amazed.  They 
went  to  the  Holy  Father  at  Rome,  and  told  him 
what  their  work  was.  He  was  well  pleased  with 
it,  gave  them  his  approval,  but  told  them  they 
must  not  preach  without  the  permission  of  the 
Archbishop  and  Chapter.  This  permission  those 
great  men  would  not  grant  to  the  "  Poor  Men.' 
They  refused  it  squarely. 

Refused  permission  to  make  the  words  of  the 
Lord  Jesus  known  !  It  was  at  this  point  that 
Pierre  Waldo  and  the  Poor  Men  of  Lyons  broke 
away  from  the  priests  and  the  Pope.  "  They 
have  abandoned  the  faith,"  he  said ;  "  and  we 
ought  to  obey  God  rather  than  man." 

This  was  the  signal  on  which  the  Archbishop 
and  the  Chapter  drove  Pierre  Waldo  out  from 
Lyons,  and  all  those  who  followed  him.  His 
house  and  his  warehouses,  all  his  books  that  they 
could  find,  they  seized,  and  he  and  his  had  to  take 
flight  into  the  mountains. 

Tnis  was  the  reason  why  the  prosperous  Jean 
Waldo,  the  master-weaver,  the  father  of  the  pretty 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


?9 


F^licie,  was  not  well  pleased  when  men  asked 
him  if  he  ard  Pierre  Waldo  were  kinsmen  or  no. 
He  did  not  want  to  be  mixed  up  with  any  "  Poor 
Men  of  Lyons."  Not  he.  He  was  not  one  of  the 
poor  men  of  Lyons,  and  he  did  not  mean  to  be. 
Pierre  Waldo  was  in  a  good  business,  he  said ; 
there  was  not  a  merchant  in  Lyons  with  better 
prospects  before  him,  when  he  took  up  with  his 
reading  and  writing,  his  beggars,  his  ministers, 
and  all  the  rest  of  their  crew.  And  so  Jean 
Waldo  would  come  out,  again  and  again,  with  his 
favorite  motto :  "  I  take  care  of  myself,  let  them 
take  care  of  themselves.  If  Pierre  would  have 
stuck  to  his  own  business,  he  would  not  be  hiding 
In  the  mountains  there." 

Such  was  the  man  who,  as  he  slowly  walked  u\. 
the  hill  just  now,  thought  himself  above  all  need 
ot  asking  a  service  from  any  man  in  this  world. 
He  would  not  have  recognized  Giulio  the  Floren- 
tine this  very  afternoon,  if  they  had  passed  each 
other,  though  he  knew  the  man's  face  perfectly 
well.  If  you  had  asked  him  why  he  did  not  salute 
such  a  man,  or  even  show  a  consciousness  of  his 
existence,  Jean  Waldo  would  have  said, — 


3° 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


"  I  take  care  of  myself ;  let  the  Florentine  taite 
care  of  himself.  My  business  is  not  his,  and  his 
is  not  mine." 

But  now,  as  has  been  said,  in  the  narrow  street, 
the  Florentine  and  his  servant,  and  the  boy 
Adrian,  who  had  been  sent  to  summon  him  in  hot 
haste,  overtook  the  dignified  master-weaver,  as  he 
walked  home  slowly  and  complacently.  The  Flor- 
entine had  no  little  pride,  and  he  might  have  passed 
the  Treasurer  of  the  Weavers'  Guild  with  as  little 
sign  of  recognition  as  when  they  passed  on  the 
morning  of  that  very  day.  But  the  boy  Adrian 
recognized  his  master,  and  in  an  instant  told  him 
the  sad  news.  With  some  difficulty  Jean  Waldo 
was  made  to  understand  that  his  treasure  and 
delight,  his  own  Felicie,  who  only  at  dinner-time 
had  been  so  happy  and  so  lovely,  was  dying,  or 
seemed  to  be  dying,  in  the  home  he  left  so  little 
while  before. 

After  this  it  was  not  Jean  Waldo  who  walked 
slowly  in  that  party.  He  seized  the  great  basket 
which  the  black  servant  bore,  and  fairly  compelled 
him  in  his  energy  to  go  faster.  He  poured  ques- 
tion upon  question  out  as  to  what  had  happened  / 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


3' 


upon  the  Florentine,  wno  was  of  course  wholly 
unable  to  answer  him.  And  thus  the  breathless 
party  arrived  together,  under  the  heavy  archway 
of  the  court-yar  j  of  Tean  Waldo's  house. 


3? 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


CHAPTER  in. 

THE  FLORENTINE. 

The  young  physician  whom  Madame  Gabrielle 
had  summoned  to  the  rescue,  was  a  native  of  the 
city  of  Florence,  and  he  had  not  been  so  long  a 
resident  of  Lyons  but  that  he  was  still  called  "  the 
Florentine."  At  that  time  the  profession  of  a 
physician,  as  a  distinct  calling  among  men,  was 
scarcely  known.  The  clergy  were  expected  to 
know  something  of  the  cure  of  disease,  and  in 
some  instances  they  really  attained  remarkable 
skill  in  its  treatment. 

But  with  the  knowledge  of  Eastern  art  which 
had  come  in  with  the  first  and  second  crusades, 
and  with  the  persistent  study  of  those  naturalists 
whom  we  call  alchemists,  a  wider  and  more  scien- 
tific knowledge  of  the  human  frame  and  its  mala- 
dies was  beginning  to  take  the  place  of  old 
superstitions  and  other  delusions.    And  thus  it 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


33 


happenecf  that  here  and  there  was  a  man  who, 
without  being  a  priest  on  the  one  hand  or  a  barber 
on  the  other,  had  gained  the  repute  of  understand- 
ing disease  and  of  the  power  of  keeping  death  at 
bay.    Such  a  man  was  Giulio  the  Florentine. 

He  moved  quickly  and  with  a  decided  step. 
He  spoke  little,  and  always  after  a  moment's 
pause,  if  he  were  questioned.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
spoke  by  some  sort  of  machinery,  which  could 
not  be  adjusted  without  an  instant's  delay.  What 
he  said  was  crisp  and  decided,  as  were  his  steps 
in  walking.  It  was  impossible  to  see  his  manner 
even  of  crossing  the  room,  or  of  arranging  his  pa 
tient's  head  upon  the  pillow,  without  feeling  conn* 
dence  in  him.  "  I  felt  as  if  there  were  a  propher 
in  the  house,"  said  Mathilde,  one  of  the  maid-ser- 
vants, who  had  been  sent  for  hot  water  into  the 
kitchen,  and  in  that  minute  took  occasion  to  re- 
peat her  hasty  observations  to  the  excited  party 
assembled  there. 

When  he  entered  the  sick-room,  it  was  more 
than  an  hour  after  Felicie  had  drained  to  the  bot- 
tom the  beaker  which  Madame  Gabrielle  had 
filled  full  of  the  bitter  decoction.    The  burning 

8 


34 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


pain  of  the  first  draught  had  passed  away  or  had 
been  relieved  by  some  of  the  palliatives  which  had 
been  given.  But  the  second  stage  was  if  possible 
more  terrible  than  that  of  the  agony  of  the  begin 
aing.  On  the  pretty  bed  where  they  had  laid  her, 
in  the  chamber  which  the  child  had  decorated  with 
the  various  treasures  which  she  had  acquired  in 
her  wanderings,  she  would  lie  for  a  few  minutes 
as  if  insensible,  and  then  would  spring  up  in  the 
most  violent  convulsions.  She  threw  herself  from 
side  to  side  without  knowing  any  of  those  who 
tried  to  soothe  her,  and  who  were  forced  to  hold 
her.  A  few  minutes  of  this  violence  would  be 
followed  by  renewed  insensibility  which  seemed 
almost  as  terrible. 

Just  after  one  of  these  paroxysms,  her  mother 
was  wiping  away  the  frothy  blood  which  burst 
from  the  poor  child's  nostrils,  when  the  Florentine 
entered  the  room.  She  made  place  for  him,  in  a 
moment,  by  the  bed ;  and,  with  that  firm  hand  of 
the  prophet,  which  struck  Mathilde  with  such  awe, 
he  felt  his  patient's  forehead  and  then  the  pulse 
in  her  wrist.  Then  he  examined,  one  by  one, 
the  simples  whi^h  the  mother  and  her  neighbors 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


35 


bad  been  administering  by  way  of  emetic  and  of 
antidote.  From  his  own  hamper,  with  the  aid  of 
the  blackamoor,  he  supplied  the  places  of  these 
with  tinctures — of  which  the  use  in  medicine  was 
then  almost  wholly  new — of  which  he  knew  the 
force  and  on  the  results  of  which  he  could  rely. 
He  applied  and  continued  the  external  applications 
which  the  eager  women  were  making  to  the  poor 
child's  body.  But  having  noted,  in  about  two 
minutes,  which  of  these  various  assistants  had  a 
head,  and  never  spoke,  he  then  banished  from 
the  room,  with  a  kind  dignity  that  nothing  could 
resist,  all  the  others,  except  the  poor  mother.  He 
crossed  to  the  window,  and,  though  the  night  was 
so  cold,  he  admitted  a  breath  of  the  winter  air. 
Then  he  came  back  to  the  bedside,  and,  with  the 
courtesy  of  a  monarch,  asked  Madame  to  tell  him 
all  she  could  of  the  tragedy.  With  the  courtesy 
of  a  monarch  he  listened  to  her  rambling  story, 
still  keeping  his  hand  on  the  forehead  or  on  the 
pulse  of  his  patient.  Madame  Gabrielle,  with  the 
tears  running  down  her  cheeks,  plunged  into  the 
account  of  what  had  happened;  and  to  all  she 
said  he  gave  careful  heed,  never  once  attempting 


IN  HIS  NAME 


to  check  her,  even  in  the  wildest  excursions  which 
she  made  to  the  right  or  to  the  lefc,  —  into  "  dit- 
dle  "  and  "  dit  il "  and  "je  disais"  —  "  says  he  "  and 
"siys  she"  and  "says  I."  He  seemed  to  know 
ihat  with  all  her  tackings,  even  if  she  "missed 
stays  "  sometimes,  she  would  come  by  her  own 
course  best  to  her  voyage's  end. 

It  was  not  till  this  whole  story  was  over  that  he 
asked  to  see  the  diet-drink,  as  Madame  called  it, 
which  had  worked  all  this  misery.  But  at  that 
moment  his  poor  patient  started  in  another  spasm 
of  these  terrible  convulsions. 

Then  was  it  that  the  balance  and  steadiness  of 
the  "  prophet  "  showed  itself  as  it  had  not  shown 
itself  till  now.  He  seemed  to  control  even  her 
almost  by  a  word,  as  none  of  the  chattering  or 
beseeching  of  those  whom  he  had  sent  away  had 
done.  When  he  held  her,  he  held  her  indeed,  so 
that  she  did  not  even  struggle  against  his  grasp  / 
when  he  bade  her  open  her  mouth  to  swallow  the 
sedative  which  the  black  brought  him  at  his  direc- 
tion, the  poor  delirious  child  obeyed  him  as  she 
would  obey  a  God ;  and  under  such  control  the 
crisis  passed,  her  mother  said,  much  more  easily 


IN  HIS  NAME.  37 

and  quickly  than  that  of  half  an  hour  before. 
Still  there  was  the  same  bloody  froth  upon  her 
lips  and  nostrils,  there  was  the  same  deadly  pal 
or  as  of  a  corpse  ;  and  the  haggard  aspect  which 
came  at  once  over  the  face  seemed  to  Madame 
Gabrielle  and  her  two  waiting  women  more  terri- 
ble than  ever.    The  Florentine  noted  the  pulse 
Again,  as  the  exhausted  child  sank  back,  and 
counted  the  rapidity  of  her  breathing.    Then  for 
the  first  time  he  began  his  examination  of  the 
poison. 

He  tasted  it,  once  and  again,  as  fearlessly  as  it 
it  had  been  water  or  wine.  If  he  were  puzzled, 
or  if  he  were  distressed  by  what  he  learned,  he 
did  not  show  it  in  any  glance  of  those  black  eyes, 
or  in  the  least  change  of  any  other  feature.  He 
turned  to  Madame  Gabrielle  again  to  ask  her  when 
it  was  brewed,  and  where  she  had  obtained  the 
materials. 

The  answer  was  as  voluble  as  before,  and  was 
not,  alas,  very  helpful.  The  good  dame's  custom, 
for  years  upon  years,  —  ever  since  she  was  a  mar- 
ried woman  indeed,  —  had  been  to  go  on  St 
John's  Day  and  on  St.  Margaret's  Day  and  on  the 


3» 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


Eve  of  the  Assumption  and  on  Halloween,  to  col- 
lect the  various  ingredients  which  were  necessary 
for  the  different  home  medicines  of  a  household 
so  large  as  hers.  Rosemary,  wild  lavender,  Mary's 
lavender,  tansey,  rue,  herb-saffron,  herb-dittany, 
motherwort,  spearwort,  maid's-wort,  apd  St.  John's* 
wort,  herb-of-heaven,  herb-of-winter  poison- kill, 
•  and  feverfew,  she  named  them  all  glibly.  And 
f  the  expert  shuddered  within  as  he  thought  of 
;he  principles  which  were  hidden  under  these 
mames,  repeated  so  recklessly  by  an  ignorant 
woman,  he  did  not  show  his  anger  or  vexation. 
And  this  year,  as  usual,  she  said  she  had  gone 
out  on  the  Eve  of  St.  John's  Day,  —  surely  he  knew 
that  spearwort  and  herb-of-heaven  and  herb-dit- 
tany were  never  so  strong  as  when  you  gathered 
them  on  the  Eve  of  St.  John's  Day,  if  the  moon 
were  at  the  full,  —  and  again  she  went  out,  with 
the  two  bay  horses  on  the  St.  Margaret's  Day  at 
e'en,  and  came  back  with  three  large  baskets  full 
of  simples.  So  she  did  on  Assumption  Eve.  Bui 
when  it  came  to  Halloween  she  confessed  that  she 
was  kept  at  home,  watching  the  conservation  ol 
some  peaches.    The  accident  —  for  accident  of 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


?0 


course  there  was  —  must  have  happened  then. 
She  had  sent  out  Goodwife  Prudhon,  who  certainly 
ought  to  know.  If  any  one  knew  any  thing  about 
the  simples  of  the  valley,  it  was  Goodwife  Prud- 
hon.  It  was  she  who  brought  in  the  bark  and  the 
roots  of  the  autumn,  which  the  dame  herself  had 
not  collected.  And  for  the  brewing  itself,  —  Oh  ! 
that  was  on  St.  Elizabeth's  Day  and  St.  Cecile's 
Day.  The  posset  indeed  was  mixed  of  decoctions 
which  were  not  six  weeks  old. 

Could  she  bring  him  any  of  the  roots  or  bark 
which  Madame  Prudhon  brought  her,  or  had  she 
used  them  all. 

Oh !  Madame  Gabrielle  was  quite  sure  she  had 
not  used  them  all ;  and  she  retired,  to  search  for 
what  might  be  left,  to  her  own  sanctuary,  not 
sorry,  perhaps,  thus  to  avoid  for  the  moment  the 
presence  of  her  wretched  husband.  He  had  been 
sent  away  from  the  room  on  some  errand  which 
had  been  made  for  him  by  the  ingenuity  of  the 
Florentine,  and  it  was  only  at  this  moment  that 
he  returned. 

So  in  poor  Felicie's  next  paroxysm  of  convul- 
sions it  was  Jean  Waldo  who  obeyed  the  Floren 


4C 


IJV  HIS  NAME. 


tine's  orders.  And  in  that  crisis  the  Florentine 
took  his  measure  also,  and  learned  what  manner 
of  man  he  was.  The  father  was  as  firm  as  the 
physician.  He  knew  his  place  too,  and  he  obeyed 
every  direction  to  a  letter.  It  was  piteous  to  see 
how  he  sought  for  a  recognition  from  his  daughter, 
which  she  would  not  give.  But  whether  he  hoped 
or  despaired,  the  poor  man  could  obey.  He 
brought  what  the  Florentine  bade  him  bring.  Fie 
stood  where  he  bade  him  stand.  With  a  hand 
as  firm  as  the  physician's,  he  dropped  the  drops 
of  the  sedative  from  the  silver  flask  in  which  it 
was  kept.  And  with  a  hand  and  arm  as  steady 
he  supported  the  pillow  on  which  she  was  to  fah 
back  after  she  had  taken  it.  The  paroxysm  was 
shorter  and  less  vehement  than  those  before  it. 
—tit  seemed  to  be  checked,  rather  from  the  ex- 
haustion of  the  patient,  than  from  any  relaxation 
of  the  disease.  Jean  Waldo  himself  knew  that 
flesh  and  blood  could  not  long  abide  raking  so 
.errible. 

As  she  sank  back  to  rest,  the  Florentine 
counted  her  pulsations  and  the  rate  of  her  breath- 
ing as  carefully  as  he  did  before.   He  took  from  his 


IN  NIS  NAME.  41 

pocket  a  silver  ball,  opened  it  by  a  screw,  and  dre* 
from  the  interior  a  long  silken  cord,  one  end  of 
which  was  attached  to  it.  At  the  other  end  was  a 
small  silver  hook,  and  this  the  Florentine  fastened 
high  in  the  curtains  of  the  room  opposite  to  where 
he  was  sitting.  He  had  thus  made  a  pendulum,  sev- 
eral ells  in  length,  and  he  set  it  to  swinging  sol 
emnly.  He  returned  to  the  child's  bedside,  and, 
with  his  hand  upon  her  heart,  noted  the  wiry, 
stubborn  pulsations,  and  compared  their  number 
with  the  vibrations  of  the  ball  he  had  set  in 
motion.  Once  and  again  he  bade  Jean  Waldo 
strike  the  ball  for  him,  when  its  original  motion 
was  in  part  exhausted. 

While  they  were  thus  occupied,  poor  Madame 
Gabrielle,  the  guilty  or  guiltless  author  of  so 
much  wretchedness,  returned.  Her  apron  was 
full  of  herbs,  barks,  powders,  and  roots,  tied  up 
in  separate  parcels,  and  each  parcel  carefull) 
labelled.  The  Florentine  took  them,  one  by  one, 
tasted  each,  and  made  a  note  of  the  name  of  each, 
the  blackamoor  holding  his  inkhorn  for  him  that 
he  might  do  so.  The  mother  by  this  time  was 
awed  into  silence,  and  never  spoke  till  she  was 


42  IN  HIS  NAME. 

spoken  to  \  but  when  she  was  asked,  she  was  con 
fident  in  her  replies.  They  were  able  without  the 
least  doubt  to  lay  out  upon  the  table  the  bark,  the 
two  parcels  of  leaves,  and  the  white  roots  which 
had  been  steeped  and  soaked,  boiled  and  brewed, 
in  the  preparation  of  the  "  diet-drink." 

As  if  he  had  to  adjust  his  speaking  apparatus 
with  a  little  "  click,"  or  as  if  he  disliked  to  speak 
at  all,  the  Florentine  said  to  the  father  and  the 
mother,  "  Here  was  the  Goodwife  Prudhon's 
blunder.  She  thought  that  she  had  here  the  root 
of  Spanish  maidenwort.  She  did  not  see  the 
leaves ;  I  suppose  they  had  dried  up  and  were 
gone.  But  it  is  the  root  of  hemlock-leaved 
oenanthe,  what  the  peasants  call  snake-bane. 
Juba,  bring  me  the  parcel  of  cenanthe."  He: 
showed  to  the  father  and  mother  that  Goodwife. 
Prudhon's  maidenwort  was,  in  fact,  the  most 
dreaded  poison  in  his  repertory. 

"  And  is  there  no  antidote  ?  "  asked  the  fathei , 
so  eagerly. 

"The  antidote,"  said  the  physician,  kindly,  "U 
to  do  what  your  wife  has  tried  to  do, —  to  throw 
uut  from  the  dear  child's  body  what  by  such  mis 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


43 


fortune  has  been  put  in."  And  he  said  one  word 
to  comfort  the  poor  blunderer.  "Well  for  her 
that  she  was  at  home,  and  that  her  mother  was  at 
hand.',  Then  he  added,  reverently,  "God  only 
knows  how  much  is  left  in  her  stomach  of  this 
decoction  \  but  she  drank  enough  of  it  to  have 
killed  us  all,  had  not  her  mother's  promptness 
compelled  her  stomach  to  throw  off  the  most  part 
of  the  poison." 

And  this  was  all  that  he  seemed  disposed  to 
say.  The  father  and  the  mother  wei  e  both  in  too 
much  awe  of  him  to  dare  to  question  him.  With 
the  lapse  of  every  half-hour  he  would  bid  one  or 
the  other  of  them  set  his  silver  penaulum  in  mo- 
tion, and  he  would  note  carefully  the  pulse  of  the 
girl,  entering  on  his  note-book  a  memorandum  of 
his  observation.  But  neither  Jean  Waldo  nor  his 
wife  dared  ask  if  there  were  improvement  or 
decline.  He  renewed  from  time  to  time  the 
applications  which  had  been  made  to  the  child's 
feet  and  legs  and  stomach.  From  time  to  time 
Bhe  started  again  in  the  terrible  convulsions. 
But  these  were  shorter  and  shorter,  and  more  and 
more  infrequent,  either  from  the  power  or  nis 


44 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


medicines,  or  from  some  change  in  the  action  oi 
the  poison.  Jean  Waldo  thought  that  the  physi- 
cian regarded  the  reaction  from  the  paroxysm  as 
more  alarming  than  the  struggle  itself.  But  who 
could  tell  what  that  man  of  iron  thought,  or  did 
not  think ;  felt,  or  did  not  feel  ?  The  poor 
father  knew  that  very  probably  he  was  but  imag- 
ining that  the  Florentine  showed  his  own  anxie- 
ties.   And  who  was  he  to  ask  him  ? 

At  midnight  the  girl  started  up  in  one  of  these 
spasms  of  agony  ;  and  at  this  time  she  spoke  with 
more  connection  of  ideas  than  any  of  them  had 
been  able  to  trace  before :  "  This  way !  this  way ! 
Gabrielle,  dear  Gabrielle,  do  you  not  hear  me, 
my  child  ?  It  is  Felicie, —  your  own  pet,  Gabri- 
elle !  Never  fear !  Never  fear !  I  have  spoken 
to  Our  Mother,  to  Our  Lady,  you  know !  That 
is  brave,  —  my  own  little  cousin,  that  is  brave. 
Care !  Care !  See  that  heavy  timber !  Oh  how 
good  !  Oh  how  good  !  She  is  quite  right,  quite 
right.  All  safe,  all  safe."  And  as  she  sighed 
out  these  words,  she  rested  from  the  most  violent 
and  passionate  exertion,  as  if  she  had  been  hard 
at  work  in  some  effort,  which  the  Florentine  did 
^ot  in  the  least  understand. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


45 


It  was  the  first  time  that  he  ever  seemed  to 
make  any  inquiry  regarding  her  symptoms,  and 
he  looked  his  curiosity  rather  than  expressed  it 
Madame  Waldo  was  relieved  at  having  a  fail 
opportunity  to  speak.  "  Gabrielle  is  her  cousin, 
my  sister  Margaret's  oldest  daughter,  if  you  please. 
Felicie  is  fond  —  Oh,  so  fond  —  of  Gabrielle.  And 
she  thinks  Gabrielle  is  in  danger.  Oh  yes  !  Oh 
yes  !  See,  she  thinks  the  bridge  is  breaking,  and 
that  Gabrielle  is  in  the  water.  Your  reverence 
remembers,  perhaps,  that  the  Holy  Mother  saved 
Gabrielle  and  so  many  more  when  the  bridge 
went  down."  But  by  this  time  the  physician, 
only  bowing  civilly  as  he  acknowledged  her  volu- 
ble explanations,  'was  counting  the  pulse-beats 
again,  and  by  a  motion  directed  Jean  Waldo  to 
renew  the  vibration  of  the  pendulum. 

Was  he  perhaps  a  little  more  satisfied  with  his 
count  and  comparison  than  he  had  been  before  ? 
Who  can  tell  ?  for  none  of  the  foui  attendants  in 
the  darkened  room  dared  to  ask  him. 

And  then  he  sent  Jean  Waldo  away.  The 
wretched  father  begged  that  he  might  stay,  but 
the  Florentine  was  as  flint.    Madame  Gabrielle 


46 


IN  HIS  NAMb.. 


and  one  of  her  maids  would  give  him  all  th$ 
assistance  he  wanted  besides  what  his  own  man 
could  render  him,  and  more.  Indeed,  he  would 
send  her  away  also,  he  said,  in  an  aside,  but  that 
he  knew  it  would  kill  her  to  go.  At  last  he  pitied 
the  poor  beseeching  father  so  much  that  he  prom 
ised  to  let  him  come  in,  an  hour  before  daybreak, 
and  take  his  wife's  place  at  the  bedside  of  his 
child.  Jean  Waldo  went  because  he  was  bidden. 
His  strong,  selfish  will  gave  way  before  the  strong, 
unseLish  will  of  this  stranger.  Prophet  indeed  ! 
This  prophet  worked  the  miracle  of  commanding 
Jean  Waldo,  and  he  saw  that  he  obeyed  him. 

Long  before  it  was  light,  however,  the  heart- 
broken father,  who  had  slept  not  a  wink  in  the 
dreary  hours  between,  came  to  claim  the  right  of 
taking  his  turn.  And  now  he  and  the  Florentine 
sent  Madame  Gabrielle  away,  weak  as  she  now 
was  from  her  wretchedness  and  her  watching  and 
her  anxiety.  Yes  !  The  night  had  given  but  little 
of  encouragement.  The  paroxysms  of  convulsion 
were,  it  is  true,  more  and  more  seldom  ;  but  the 
prostration  after  them  was  more  and  more  terri- 
ble.   It  seemed  too  clear  now  to  the  mother  that 


UV  HIS  NAME. 


47 


the  child  was  loo  weak  for  nature  to  rally  from 
the  struggle  of  the  paroxysm.  Nor  did  she  m  the 
least  regain  her  consciousness  The  black  feat- 
ures and  strange  look  of  the  servant  did  not  sui- 
prise  her,  nor  did  her  mother's  familiar  face  call 
the  least  look  of  recognition.  In  the  intervals  of 
rest,  her  rest  was  absolute.  She  saw  nothing,  said 
nothing,  and  seemed  to  hear  nothing  then.  When 
she  roused  to  these  horrid  battles  the  delusion 
was  now  one  thing  and  now  another.  She  saw 
the  sinking  bridge,  or  she  was  talking  to  some 
lame  beggar  woman  so  fast  that  they  could  hardly 
catch  her  words,  or  she  was  throwing  kisses  and 
waving  her  hand  to  her  dear  mountain  far  away, 
or  she  wa  5  running  down  the  side  of  the  hill  of 
Fourvieres  that  she  might  be  sure  to  arrive  at 
home  in  time  to  meet  her  father  when  she  came 
down  to  supper.  In  these  delusions  the  wise 
physician  humored  her.  But  she  seemed  to  have 
no  knowledge  of  him  nor  of  any  of  them,  nor  any 
consciousness  of  their  presence.  The  phantoms 
before  her  were  all  she  saw  or  heard.  And  they 
vanished  as  strangely  and  as  suddenly  as  they 
came.  In  the  midst  of  one  of  these  quick  ha- 
rangues to  them,  she  would  sink  back  on  tiif-. 


48 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


pillow,  which  the  black  held  ready  for  her,  as  \\ 
she  were  too  completely  exhausted  and  prostrate 
with  the  exertion  to  utter  another  syllable. 

It  was  just  after  one  of  these  visions,  and  the 
paroxysm  accompanying  it,  that  Jean  Waldo  re- 
turned, and  that  his  wife  was  sent  away.  It 
seemed  that  the  resolute  man  had  been  nursing 
resolution  in  his  night-watch  in  the  passage-way, 
and  that  he  was  resolved  to  know  the  best  or  the 
worst ;  that  he  would  command  the  young  man  to 
tell  him  all  that  he  could  tell  him.  He  set  the 
pendulum  in  motion  as  he  was  bidden  ;  he  filled 
with  hotter  water  a  jar  for  the  child's  feet  to  rest 
upon,  and  exchanged  for  it  that  which  was  on  the 
bed  ;  he  spread  the  napkin  at  her  mouth,  as  the 
Florentine  fed  her  from  an  elixir,  which,  as  Jean 
Waldo  saw,  was  not  the  same  which  they  used  at 
midnight.  Then  when  she  rested  and  all  was 
still,  he  said,  firmly,  — 

"  Tell  me  the  worst,  sir.  Is  the  child  dying  01 
living?    I  am  not  a  fool." 

The  Florentine  looked  up  and  said,  after  the 
moment  of  preparation,  "  If  I  thought  you  were  a 
fool,  you  would  not  be  in  the  room  with  my  patient. 
You  know  all  that  I  know,  because  you  have  eye* 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


49 


(o  see.  These  paroxysms  of  agony  are  less  fre- 
quent. The  last  interval  was  nearly  twice  as  long 
as  the  first  was,  I  should  think.  She  is  wholly 
free  from  pain  too,  and  her  pulse,  though  it  beats 
so  quick,  beats  with  a  more  reasonable  edge  than 
when  I  came  in.  But  her  strength  is  failing  all 
(he  same.  Her  breath  is  quicker ;  and  if  the  in- 
terval is  longer,  it  is  because  nerve  and  muscle, 
and  life,  whatever  that  is,  cannot  rally  to  the 
struggle  as  they  did  in  the  evening.  She  is  at  the 
omnipotent  age,  and  her  life  has  been  strong  and 
pure  as  an  angel's.  Were  it  not  for  that  she 
would  have  been  dead  before  now."  And  the 
silent  man  paused,  but  paused  as  if  he  would  like 
to  say  something  more. 

For  this  "something  more"  the  distressed 
tather  waited  ;  he  thought  he  waited  an  eternity 
but  it  did  not  come.  "  Can  you  not  say  any  thine; 
more  ?  "  he  said,  miserably.  "  What  is  it  that  we 
are  doing  ?  What  are  these  elixirs  and  tisans  ?  Is 
not  there  somewhere  in  God's  world,  some  potion 
—  do  you  not  call  it  an  antidote  —  which  will  pul 
out  this  poison  as  water  puts  out  fire  ?  " 

"  Is  there  not  ?   Is  there  ?  "  said  the  Florentine 

4 


SO 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


setting  the  click  of  his  talking  apparatus  moie 
resolutely  if  possible  than  before.  "  If  there  is, 
the  wit  of  man  has  not  discovered  it.  How  should 
it  ?  The  water  which  puts  out  the  fire  is  the  same 
water  which  drowns  the  sailor.  For  aught  you 
and  I  can  tell,  this  root,  of  which  the  decoction 
seemed  liquid  flame  when  your  daughter  drank  it, 
may  give  life  itself  to  some  fish  or  beast  or  bird 
for  which  the  good  God  made  it.  All  that  we  do, 
my  friend,"  —  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  used 
those  words  in  that  house,  —  "  all  that  we  do  is  to 
undo  what  we  did  wrong  before.  We  have  tried 
to  rid  her  system  of  this  wretched  decoction,  and 
now  we  are  trying  to  give  time,  whatever  that  is ; 
and  nature,  whatever  that  is  ;  and  life,  whatever 
that  is,  —  the  chance  to  do  their  perfect  work. 
We  can  do  nothing  more.  The  good  God  wishes 
and  means  to  save  health  and  strength  and  joy 
and  abundant  life.  So  much  we  know ;  and 
knowing  that,  in  the  strength  and  life  of  a  pure 
child  of  His,  like  this  girl,  we  hope,  and  have  a 
right  to  hope." 

"  Is  this  all  ? "  said  the  father  sadly,  aftei 
another  pause,  in  which  he  thought  the  Florentine 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


wanted  to  say  more.  "Is  this  all  ?  What  is  the 
tisan,  what  is  the  mustard  on  her  stomach,  what  is 
the  rubbing,  what  is  the  hot  water  at  her  feet, 
what  is  the  elixir  in  your  phial?" 

"  Ah  well !  "  replied  the  expert,  after  a  longer 
pause  than  usual  perhaps,  in  what  seemed  like 
the  adjustment  of  his  machinery ;  "  what  is  it  in- 
deed ?  It  is  our  poor  effort  to  quicken  and  help 
from  the  outside  the  processes  of  this  nature  which 
is  so  mysterious  in  the  beautiful  machine.  The 
hot  water  at  her  feet  keeps  them  more  near  to  the 
warmth  which  nature  gives.  My  master  taught 
me  that  when  the  foot  and  arm  and  leg  are  fully 
warm,  each  movement  of  the  heart  drove  easily  a 
tide  of  the  blood  of  life  itself  through  them  all. 
You  can  see  that  the  warmth  of  the  jar  should 
make  that  process  easier  for  this  poor  heart  which 
finds  its  work  so  hard.  Ah  well !  it  seems  as  if 
we  helped  it  more  by  the  friction  of  these  cloths, 
so  long  as  we  do  not  annoy  her  by  it,  and  as  if 
these  sinapisms  wrought  in  the  same  way.  We 
think  we  know  that,  within  her  system,  tinctures 
which  we  have  tried  give  the  same  help  to  a 
life  which  is  too  weak.    Perhaps  they  enable  some 


52 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


part  of  her  nervous  system  which  the  poison  haa 
not  reached  to  act  for  the  good  of  the  part  that  it 
first  affected." 

Then  the  talking  apparatus  seemed  to  fail  the 
expert.  He  opened  his  mouth  once  and  again  ; 
he  then  said  "  I  "  once  or  twice,  but  seemed  to 
reconsider  his  determination,  and  to  determine 
that  he  would  add  nothing  more. 

"  But  we  are  so  well,  and  she  is  so  faint  there. 
Is  it  not  strange  that  I  cannot  give  her  of  this 
fresh  blood  of  mine,  or  from  my  life,  five  years, 
ten,  twenty  ?  I  would  give  them  gladly." 

"  Ah,  my  friend,"  said  the  expert,  without  a  mo- 
ment's pause  this  time,  "  do  not  speak  as  if  we  gave 
any  thing  or  did  any  thing.  It  is  God  who  gives, 
and  God  who  takes.  All  that  you  and  I  can  do  is 
so  to  adjust  and  so  to  relieve,  and  perhaps  so  to 
help  this  poor  frail  machine,  that  the  breath  of  life 
God  gave  it  may  be  able  to  work  His  work.  You 
would  give  your  life  for  hers,  I  do  not  doubt  it. 
For  one,  I  would  have  given  my  life  once  for  the 
brother  who  was  dearest  to  me.  My  master 
opened  the  vein  which  you  see  scarred  here,  and 
with  a  silver  tube  he  drew  the  healthy,  fresh  blood 


IN  HIS  A  A  ME. 


53 


trom  my  young  life  into  the  failing  veins  of  his 
ebbing  life.  But  it  could  not  be,  my  friend/'  he 
added,  after  another  long  pause.  "  His  life  was 
his,  and  mine  was  mine.  Perhaps  in  another 
world  our  lives  may  be  closer,  and  we  may  be 
made  perfect  in  one."  It  seemed  as  if  this  confi- 
dence with  the  father  broke  some  spell  which  had 
been  on  the  adept's  tongue  before.  He  sat  still 
for  a  few  minutes,  with  his  hand  upon  the  girl's 
heart,  then  rose  and  went  round  the  bed,  and  at 
her  back  listened  for  her  breath,  and  felt  again 
the  heat  of  his  water  jugs.  Then  as  he  resumed 
his  seat,  he  said,  half  aloud :  — 

"  I  wish  my  master  were  here ! "  It  was  the 
first  wish  he  had  expressed,  the  first  intimation 
that  he  and  his  horrid  blackamoor  and  the  great 
hamper  could  not  produce  every  thing  which  hu- 
man wit  could  suggest  in  the  exigency. 

Jean  Waldo  jumped  eagerly  at  the  suggestion. 

"  Your  master  ?  Who  is  he  ?  where  is  he  ?  Let 
me  send,  let  me  go,  let  me  beg  him  to  come  !  Will 
money  buy  him  ?  Here  is  enough  of  that !  What 
are  gold  and  silver  to  me,  if  this  child  die  ? 99 

"  Has  not  this  night  taught  you,  sir,  that  life  is 


54 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


something  that  men  cannot  buy  or  sell  >  :t  The 
adept  spake  if  possible  more  proudly  than  ever. 
"  Know,  sir,  the  reason  why  my  master  was  not 
first  at  this  child's  bedstead,  with  all  his  skill  and 
tenderness  and  experience.  It  is  because  he  cared 
for  the  Poor  Men  of  Lyons,  more  than  the  rich 
men  of  Lyons." 

Then  there  came  one  of  those  queer  clicks  in 
his  talking  machinery,  as  if  he  were  too  indignant 
to  say  more.    But  he  went  on  :  — 

"  Your  priests  yonder,  with  their  bells  and  their 
masses,  and  their  feasts  inside  their  convents  j 
your  famous  chapter  and  your  famous  bishop  could 
not  bear  to  have  the  '  Poor  Men  of  Lyons '  fed  or 
taught,  and  so  they  drove  my  master  away,  and 
your  kinsman  away,  and  you  know  how  many 
others.  Men  say  and  I  believe  that  it  was  because 
these  men  knew  Holy  Scripture  better  than  they 
knew  it,  and  because  they  loved  the  poor  better 
than  they  loved  them.  This  is  certain,  that  these 
men  went  about  doing  good,  that  they  fed  the 
hungry  and  gave  drink  to  the  thirsty,  they  took 
the  stranger  into  their  homes  and  they  ministered 
to  the  sick  and  those  that  were  in  prison,  they 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


55 


brought  glad  tidings  to  the  poor  and  comfort  to 
those  in  sorrow.  I  do  not  know  much  of  Holy 
Scripture,  but  I  always  supposed  that  this  was  the 
pure  Gospel.  It  was  not  pure  enough  for  your 
priests,  and  so  the  liege  lords  of  Lyons  drove 
those  men  away.  That  is  the  reason  why  my 
master  is  not  at  your  daughter's  bedside." 

The  young  physician  stopped  short,  as  if  he 
had  let  his  indignation  run  further  than  was  wise 
A  wretched  feeling,  a  sickness  at  heart  swept  over 
Jean  Waldo,  when  he  remembered  how  often  he 
0ad  said  to  these  men  who  were  in  exile  with  his 
kinsman,  that  they  would  have  been  wiser  to  have 
minded  their  own  business.  Of  his  kinsman  him- 
self he  had  said,  once  and  again,  "  If  he  would 
only  mind  his  own  concerns,  all  would  be  well/ 
Now  Jean  Waldo  began  to  see  that  he  did  want 
some  one  to  take  care  of  him  and  his,  and  that 
this  grand  selfishness  of  his  was  only  fitted  for 
ths  times  of  high  prosperity. 

"  Is  your  master  beyond  all  recall  ? "  he  said,  a 
dim  notion  crossing  his  mind  that  he  had  heard 
some  of  the  rich  burghers  say  that  the  "  Poor  MeD 
of  Lyons  "  were  hiding  in  the  mountains 


56 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


"  I  have  not  seen  my  master  for  years,'5  replied 
the  Florentine,  thoughtfully.    "  His  home  is  in  the 
Brevon  caves,  among  men  who  have  never  be 
trayed  him,  beyond  Cornillon  and  St.  Rambert." 

"  St.  Rambert,"  said  the  father,  eagerly,  —  "  St. 
Rambert,  —  it  is  close  to  us,  a  miserable  six  hours 
away.  I  have  horses  in  these  stables  that  would 
take  me  there  in  six  hours." 

The  adept  looked  uneasily  at  the  child,  when 
her  father  spoke  of  six  hours,  as  if  he  would  say, 
"  and  where  will  she  be  when  six  hours  only  are 
gone  ?  "  But  he  did  not  say  this.  He  said,  "  My 
master  is  not  at  Cornillon,  he  is  in  the  valley  of 
the  Brevon  beyond.  Still,  as  you  say,  that  is  not 
so  far  away." 

"  Send  for  him  !  send  for  him  !  "  cried  the 
father ;  "  send  for  him  if  you  have  one  ray  of 
hope !  "  And  the  eagerness  both  of  his  attitude 
and  his  voice  would  have  moved  a  harder  listener 
than  the  Florentine.  It  seemed  as  if  the  child 
herself  was  conscious  of  what  passed.  She  moved 
her  head  a  little  on  the  pillow  and  a  sunny  smile 
floated  over  her  face,  the  first  expression  except 
that  of  agony  or  anxiety  which  the  adept  had  seen 
there. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


57 


"  If  you  will  send,  I  will  write,"  said  the  adept ; 
and  he  whispered  to  the  black,  who  brought  to 
him  from  a  case  in  the  hamper  a  strip  of  vellum 
already  folded  for  a  letter. 

Have  you  a  trusty  man  whom  you  can  send 
with  this  ?  Bid  your  grooms  saddle  the  horse,  — 
and  he  needs  to  be  your  best,  —  while  I  am  writing." 

Jean  Waldo  asked  nothing  more  but  to  be  doing 
something,  and  at  the  word  left  the  room. 

The  Florentine  wrote:  — 

"  Here  is  a  child  dying  because  she  has  drunk  a  de- 
coction of  hemlock-leaved  cenanthe.  I  think  there  was 
also  the  milky  blush  mushroom  or  the  Picardy  peaus- 
siere  in  the  decoction.    Come  if  you  can  help  us. 

"  For  the  love  of  Christ.  Giulio. 

And  in  the  middle,  at  the  bottom,  he  drew  with 
some  little  care  the  symbol  known  as  the  Cross 
of  Malta. 


58 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


He  added,  "  We  have  no  moment  to  lose.  Be* 
fore  daybreak  of  St.  Ives." 

Meanwhile  the  father  had  hurried  down  the 
dark  passages,  out  into  the  court-yard,  past  the 
workshops  to  the  room  where  Hugh  Prinhac,  the 
most  resolute  of  the  weavers,  slept ;  a  man  who  in 
street  fights  had  again  and  again  led  the  weavers' 
apprentices  in  their  victories  over  the  dyers. 

He  knocked  at  the  door,  and  knocked  again 
and  again  till  he  heard  a  motion  within.  To  a 
gruff  "  Who's  there  ? "  he  gave  his  name  in  reply  \ 
and  in  an  instant  the  astonished  journeyman  threw 
the  door  open  for  his  master. 

"Prinhac,  my  daughter  is  dying.  The  only 
man  that  can  save  her  is  this  Italian,  who  is  only 
five  hours  away.  Prinhac,  as  you  love  me,  take 
his  parchment  to  the  master,  and  bring  him." 

Prinhac  was  but  half  awake  perhaps.  The 
enterprise  was  not  attractive,  nor  did  it  seem  as  if 
his  employer  counted  very  wisely  when  he  relied 
on  such  love  as  the  weaver  bore  him.  Prinhac 
asked  some  hesitating  question. 

"  For  the  love  of  Christ,  do  not  stay  to  argue," 
s&id  the  poor  old  man. 


IN  HIS  NAMh. 


59 


Without  knowing  it,  he  had  struck  a  chord  in 
using  the  sacred  words,  and  in  an  instant  the 
weaver  was  ready  for  any  duty.  "Who  stays  to 
argue  ? "  said  he.  "  Do  you  see  that  your  black 
stallion  is  saddled,  and  by  the  time  the  horse  is 
here,  I  will  be  ready  to  mount.  Love  cf  Christ 
indeed  !  And  who  says  I  tarry  when  I  am  invoked 

IN  HIS  NAME?" 


IN  HIS  NAME 


CHAPTER  IV. 


UP  TO  THE  HILLS. 


Sure  enough,  the  weaver  stood  cn  the  step 
the  door,  booted  and  spurred,  when  the  tiembling 
old  man  appeared  with  his  lantern  leading  out 
Barbe-Noire  from  the  low  gateway  of  the  mews. 
It  was  long  since  Jean  Waldo  had  saddled  and 
bridled  a  horse  for  himself,  but  he  had  not  forgot- 
ten the  arts  of  his  boyhood,  and  the  Arab  needed 
no  care  because  his  master  was  his  groom.  At 
the  same  moment  Giulio,  the  Florentine,  appeared 
from  above,  and  as  Prinhac  mounted  promptly, 
Giulio  put  his  hand  over  the  mane  of  the  horse, 
and  almost  m  a  whisper,  though  they  three  were 
all  alone  in  the  night,  he  gave  the  young  fellow 
precise  directions  where  and  how  Lugio  was  to  be 
found,  and  delivered  his  missive.  Prinhac  bent  in 
the  saddle,  listened  carefully,  and  repeated  the 
directions  to  be  sure  that  he  had  not  mistaken  them. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


6! 


"  Never  fear  me,  then  ! "  he  said,  spurred  his 
aorse,  and  was  away. 

"  He  must  cross  the  bridge  before  sundown," 
cried  poor  Jean  Waldo  to  the  rider,  himself 
startled  as  he  remembered  how  narrow  was  the 
tange  thus  given. 

"  Nevei  fear,"  was  still  the  cheerful  answei, 
and  Prinhac  disappeared  into  the  night. 

The  ride  across  the  narrow  peninsula  which 
parts  the  Saone  from  the  Rhone,  and  is  to-day 
covered  by  the  most  beautiful  part  of  the  city  of 
Lyons,  took  but  a  few  minutes,  —  and  the  rider 
was  soon  at  the  long,  narrow  bridge  over  th^ 
larger  river,  which  had  been  temporarily  con 
structed,  by  the  direction  of  Richard  of  the  Lion 
Heart,  after  the  ruin  of  the  year  before.  "  The 
old  man  bids  us  return  before  sunset.  He  has 
forgotten  that  I  have  started  before  sunrise/' 
This  was  the  thought  which  amused  Prinhac,  so 
that  even  a  smile  curled  over  his  hard  face  as  he 
rode  up  to  the  gateway  of  the  bridge. 

The  truth  was,  that  no  passage  was  permit- 
ted before  sunrise,  under  the  sharp  orders  of 
the  Viguier.    But  many  things  were  done  in  the 


62 


IN  HIS  NAME-. 


priest-governed  city  of  Lyons,  which  neither  Vi 
guiers  nor  Seneschals  nor  Couriers  nor  the  Chap 
ter  nor  the  Bishop  suspected.  And  this  the  readei 
will  see. 

"  Hola  !  Who  commands  the  guard  ? "  cried 
Prinhac.  "Turn  out!  turn  out!  Is  this  the  way 
our  bridges  are  watched  ?  " 

A  sleepy  sentinel  appeared. 

"  Hola  !  who  commands  the  guard  ? 99  cried  the 
fearless  weaver  again. 

"  And  what  is  that  to  you  ? 99  replied  the  sen- 
tinel, throwing  his  halberd  forward  in  carte. 
"  If  you  see  the  guard,  it  ought  to  be  enough 
for  you." 

Prinhac  did  not  stop  to  argue.  But  the  senti- 
nel, as  he  watched  him  in  the  dim  lantern-light, 
saw  that  he  made  in  the  air  the  sign  of  a  Mal- 
tese Cross,  and  heard  him  say,  in  a  low  whisper, 
"  Send  me  the  officer  of  the  guard 

In  His  Name." 

Sign  and  whisper  were  enough.    The  sentrj 

threw  up  his  halberd  in  a  military  salute  and  was 


IN  HIS  NAME 


6J 


gone.  Nor  did  the  rider  wait  a  minute  in  the 
cold,  before  the  officer  of  the  guard,  fully  dressed 
in  armor,  passed  out  from  the  gateway  and  sa- 
luted. 

"  Can  you  let  me  pass,  Mr.  Officer  ? "  said 

Prinhac,  quietly  and  modestly  this  time.    u  It  is 

for  the  love  of  Christ  that  I  am  riding." 
"Go  — 

In  His  Name," 

was  the  only  reply  made  to  the  weaver.  The 
officer  turned,  passed  into  the  guard-house,  and, 
as  if  by  invisible  hand,  the  portcullis  rose  before 
Prinhac,  the  only  bar  to  his  passage,  and  in  a 
moment  he  was  on  the  bridge.  The  grate  fell 
behind  him,  and  he  was  again  alone. 

"  And  how  would  my  master  have  passed 
there  ?  "  he  said  to  himself,  half  aloud.  And  the 
same  grim  smile  crept  over  his  face,  —  "  he  should 
have  asked  his  friend  the  Bishop,  or  our  distin- 
guished boon  companion  the  Seneschal,  to  give 
him  a  pass  that  he  might  send  into  the  mountains 
for  the  doctor  they  have  driven  away."  And  then 
aloud,  "  Hist,  hist,  Barbe-Noire  1    You  are  not  at 


64 


IN  HIS  NAM tL. 


Chateaudun  ;  this  is  no  racecourse.  You  shall 
have  running  enough  before  to-day  is  over.  But 
in  the  dark,  over  these  rotten  boats,  you  must 
step  more  carefully,  my  beauty." 

And  so  the  rough  fellow  began  musing  on  the 
strange  chance  which  had  put  him  astride  this 
horse,  which,  in  the  judgment  of  weavers,  spin- 
ners, fullers,  and  dyers,  of  the  whole  of  the  little 
community  indeed  which  found  its  centre  in  Jean 
Waldo's  court-yard,  —  was  by  far  the  noblest  horse 
in  Lyons.  Nor  were  they  far  from  right  in  their 
judgment.  The  noble  creature  had  first  appeared 
there  when  Jean  Waldo  rode  him  back  from  a  long 
absence  in  Marseilles.  What  price  he  had  paid, 
or  what  debts  he  had  forgiven  for  him,  no  man  in 
the  workshops  knew.  But  there  were  rumors  as 
to  the  wild  life  of  the  merchant  who  had  been  his 
last  owner,  and  of  fight  with  the  Barbary  corsair 
who  had  been  his  master  before.  How  these 
things  might  be,  Prinhac  did  not  know.  He  did 
know  that  any  groom  who  was  permitted  to  cross 
Barbe-Noire's  saddle  for  an  hour,  would  brag  for 
a  week  of  that  honor,  and  that,  for  his  own  part, 
he  might  the  morning  before  as  well  have  wished 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


65 


for  the  crown  of  Burgundy,  as  to  have  wished  foi 
the  permission  to  ride  Barbe-Noire  for  a  day. 

And  so  the  weaver  was  led  on,  as  the  horse 
took  surer  foothold  on  the  causeway,  to  ask  him- 
self why  his  master  chose  him  from  all  workmen 
for  this  mission.  Lucky  for  Jean  Waldo,  the  man 
thought  it,  that  he  chose  as  he  did.  "  Which  of 
them  would  have  seen  that  portcullis  rise,  as  I 
did  ?  "  Ah,  Prinhac,  Prinhac  !  perhaps  more  of 
them  have  the  talisman  than  you  think  for ! 

The  truth  was  that  when  the  Bishop  John  Fine- 
House, —  Jean  des  Belles  Maisons,  as  some  of 
the  archives  call  him,  —  when  John  Fine-House,  I 
say,  or  John  Fine  Hands,  as  others  call  him,  chose 
to  banish  Peter  Waldo  and  the  "Poor  Men  of 
Lyons  "  from  his  city,  he  strained  his  new-bought 
authority  more  harshly  than  he  knew.  When  the 
Archbishop  and  Chapter  had  refused  to  the  Poor 
Men  of  Lyons  the  right  to  assemble  in  the  public 
places,  or  indeed  anywhere,  to  read  the  gospels, 
they  had  themselves  possessed  for  only  six  years 
what  they  had  long  wished  for,  the  temporal  gov- 
ernment of  the  city  and  outlying  country.  Before 
the  Pope  of  Rome  had  any  such  power  in  Rcme, 

s 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


the  Archbishop  of  Lyons  was  as  good  as  an  inde- 
pendent prince  in  Lyons.  In  1173  the  Count  of 
Forez  and  his  son  had  sold  out  all  their  rights  there, 
in  exchange  for  some  lands  owned  by  the  Chap- 
ter, and  eleven  hundred  marks  of  money.  The 
rulers  of  Burgundy  had  too  little  to  do  with  such 
"  Counties  "  to  interfere,  and  practically  the  Arch- 
bishop found  himself  a  sovereign  prince.  The 
town  of  Lyons  became  his  fief,  and  all  the  admin- 
istration was  in  his  name. 

One  of  his  first  acts  had  been  the  prohibition 
of  this  nonsense  about  gospels  and  charity  and 
good  works,  —  about  translating  the  Scriptures, 
and  assemblies  of  the  people  to  be  addressed  by 
laymen.  "No  Houses  of  Bread  nor  Houses  of 
God,  except  such  as  the  Chapter  builds  ! "  And 
one  of  his  first  victories  was  that  which  he  won 
over  Pierre  Waldo  when  he  excommunicated  him 
and  his,  and  when  the  Pope  confirmed  the  excom- 
munication. For,  only  six  years  before,  just  as 
Fine-House  was  buying  his  fief,  Pope  Alexander 
had  embraced  this  barefoot  beggar,  and  had  ap- 
proved his  life  of  voluntary  poverty. 

But  it  was  one  thing  to  drive  the  merchant 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


67 


preacher  and  his  friends  out  of  Lyons,  and  anothei 
to  make  the  people  forget  them.  There  were  too 
many  who  had  been  fed  by  their  bounty,  comforted 
by  their  sympathy,  and  taught  by  their  zeal,  who 
were  too  insignificant  for  exile,  but  were  too  grate- 
ful to  forget.  The  weaver  Prinhac  was  one  of 
these  ;  and  by  the  secret  signals  which  they  had 
established  among  themselves,  he  knew  that  many 
of  the  men-at-arms  of  the  Chapter  thought  as  he 
thought  and  felt  as  he  felt.  It  was  his  confidence 
in  their  help  which  had  brought  him  out  over  the 
bridge  so  easily. 

But  in  truth  Jean  Waldo  had  chosen  him  only 
because  he  had  seen  that  he  was  quick  as  a  flash 
and  faltered  at  nothing.  It  had  been,  alas,  not 
from  any  deep  religious  feeling,  but  from  the 
agony  of  despair,  that  Jean  Waldo  had  summoned 
the  young  athlete  to  rise,  "  for  the  love  of  Christ." 
The  man  had  replied  to  the  summons  so  fortu- 
nately made,  with  the  reply  which,  to  one  initiated 
into  the  mysteries  of  these  "poor  men,"  would 
have  shown  that  he  was  one  who  was  loyally  tied 
to  the  teachers  and  friends  who  had  done  so  much 
for  Lyons,  and  were  exiled  from  their  homes.  But 


68 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


Jean  Waldo  was  not  initiated,  and  he  had  no  sus- 
picion that  he  had  made  a  choice  so  happy  as  he 
had  when  he  sent  Prinhac  upon  his  errand. 

Frinhac  and  Barbe-Noire  crossed  the  causeway 
more  slowly  than  either  of  them  liked,  but  as  fast 
as  the  rider  dared  to  go  over  an  icy  road  in  the 
darkness.  As  day  began  to  break  at  last,  they 
came  to  a  point  for  which  Giulio's  directions  had 
not  prepared  him.  He  had  crossed  the  river 
again.  The  valley  road,  which  in  our  time  is  the 
road  always  travelled,  was  but  a  half  broken  way, 
little  better  than  a  foot-path.  The  beaten  track 
turned  to  the  left  and  boldly  pushed  up  the  steep 
hill  The  foot-path  was  stolen  from  the  edge  of 
the  hill,  which  here  crowds  close  upon  the  Rhone. 
Still,  though  it  was  narrow,  and  though,  clearly 
enough,  a  block  of  ice  from  the  river  or  of  rock 
from  the  cliff  might  easily  make  it  impassable,  it 
was  so  much  more  level  and  so  much  more  direct 
than  the  hill  road,  that  Prinhac  would  have  been 
g  ad  to  choose  it.  But  he  did  not  dare,  without 
better  authority  than  his  own  guess  or  wish. 

A  miserable  turf  hovel  stood  some  hundred 
yards  back  from  the  way  he  had  been  following, 


77T  HIS  NAME. 


6Q 


on  a  steep  slope  of  the  hill.  Unwilling  to  lose  an 
instant,  the  young  man  still  forced  Barbe-Noire, 
who  seemed  as  unwilling  as  himself,  across  the 
little  turnip-patch,  and  bringing  the  horse  close 
to  the  very  door  itself,  knocked  loud  enough  to 
waken  Ogier  the  Dane. 
No  answer. 

Prinhac  knocked  again  and  again.  It  was  no 
deserted  hovel,  he  knew  that ;  and  he  meant  that 
no  one  there  should  sleep  later  that  morning. 

To  the  fourth  knock,  the  squeaking  voice  of  an 
old  woman  answered  :  "Who  is  there  ? " 

"  Oh,"  said  the  rider,  laughing,  "  you  have  turned 
over  in  the  bed,  have  you  ?  I  am  a  courier  from 
Lyons,  and  I  want  to  know  which  is  my  best  way 
to  Meximieux." 

"Both  are  the  best, —  both  are  the  best.  Go 
your  way,  and  do  not  be  waking  honest  people  at 
midnight !  " 

Prinhac  had  played  on  a  word  in  calling  him 
self  a  courier.    A  courier  was  indeed  a  carrier  of 
messages,  and  it  was  true  that  he  was  carrying  a 
message  ;  but  in  the  phrase  of  the  time,  a  "  cou- 
rier "  in  Lyons  corresponded  to  what  we  now  call 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


a  prosecuting  attorney,  and  Prinhac  had  had  the 
hope  that  he  might  frighten  the  old  crone  into  an 
answer.  But  he  reckoned  quite  without  his  host. 
The  truth  was,  that  she  did  not  know  the  word  in 
either  of  its  meanings.  She  only  guessed  that 
here  was  some  roysterer  who  was  to  be  kept  at 
bay,  and  answered  as  best  she  could,  with  the  ob 
ject  of  getting  rid  of  him. 

Prinhac  waited  a  moment,  but  found  he  was  to 
get  no  other  answer.  He  knocked  again  and 
again,  but  there  was  no  answer.  It  was  half  un- 
consciously that  he  said  then,  in  no  loud  tone,  "  For 
the  love  of  Christ,  will  no  one  show  me  the  way  ? 99 

And  the  answer  was  as  prompt  as  his  own  had 
been  to  Jean  Waldo.  The  shutter  of  the  hovel 
was  thrown  open  wide.  A  man  thrust  half  his 
body  out  from  the  window. 

"  Who  pleads  the  love  of  Christ  ?  If  you  have 
all  day  before  you,  take  the  valley ;  but  you  take 
the  chances  of  having  to  return.  If  your  errand  is 
haste,  take  the  hill  road.   Trust  me,  for  I  speak  it 

In  His  Name." 


The  rider  nodded,  made  the  Cross  of  Malta  in 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


7* 


the  air,  pushed  his  horse  clown  to  the  roadway 
again,  and  began  the  tedious  ascent  of  the  hill. 

As  he  rose  from  the  fog  of  the  valley,  he  turned 
uneasily  in  his  saddle  and  looked  back  once  and 
again  to  be  sure  what  was  the  prospect  of  the 
weather  now  sunrise  drew  near.  For  if  this  day 
were  to  be  stormy,  if  the  hill  paths  were  to  be 
blocked  or  obscured  by  never  so  little  freshl) 
fdl i en  snow,  little  hope  was  there  that  the  priest- 
doctor  for  whom  he  was  sent  would  ever  see  little 
Felicie  alive.  Prinhac  was  of  a  hopeful  mood. 
But  he  found  it  hard  to  read  the  signs  of  the 
times  in  that  early  morning,  hard  indeed  to  per- 
suade himself  that  the  rifted  clouds  which  were 
beginning  to  catch  their  glory  of  purple  and  gold 
from  the  sun  still  concealed  were  only  to  be 
painted  clouds  that  day,  and  that  there  was  no 
malice  behind  them.  "The  mountain  will  tell 
me/'  said  Prinhac.  "  If,  when  I  have  passed  the 
castle  gate,  I  see  the  white  mountain,  I  will  lay  a 
wager  on  the  day ;  but  if  there  are  as  heavy  clouds 
before  me  as  there  are  behind,  it  must  go  hard 
with  poor  Mademoiselle  Felicie." 

And  they  toted  up  the  broken  hill,  Prinhac  and 


72  IN  HIS  NAME. 

the  horse.  Prinhac  was  not  too  lazy  nor  too  proud 
to  save  his  horse,  even  at  this  early  hour,  as  best 
he  might.  At  the  heaviest  ascent,  he  was  off  the 
saddle  and  walked  by  the  noble  creature's  side, 
only  playing  with  the  thick  and  heavy  black  mane, 
which  had  given  to  him  his  name.  Then,  with- 
out waiting  for  stirrups,  he  was  on  his  back  again, 
and  he  indulged  Barbe-Noire  in  a  little  gallop  as 
they  crossed  the  flat  which  is  commanded  by  the 
castle. 

The  heavy  square  tower  of  the  castle  seemed 
completely  to  block  the  way.  But  Prinhac  ad- 
vanced, nothing  faltering,  —  rode  close  along  the 
wall,  turned  it,  and  opened  on  a  vision  of  wonder 
such  as  he  never  looked  upon  before. 

The  hill  which  he  had  been  mounting  com- 
mands from  its  highest  ridge  a  marvellous  view 
of  the  valley  of  the  Rhone.  Far  beneath  him  lay 
the  winding  course  of  the  river,  flowing  between 
fields  which  were  this  morning  white  with  hoar- 
frost. The  blue  of  the  Rhone  and  the  white  of 
the  frost  both  revealed  themselves  to  him  through 
the  exquisite  purple  mist  which,  even  at  this  hour, 
was  beginning  to  rise  from  the  meadows.  Like 


TN  HIS  NAME. 


73 


islands  through  this  mist,  Prinhac  could  see  one 
and  another  village,  —  here  a  tower,  and  there  a 
square  castle,  —  he  could  see  the  spires  of  Lhuis 
and  St.  Laurent,  and  far  away  Arandon.  But  he 
did  not  pause  to  look  or  to  wonder.  He  pressed 
his  horse  to  the  point  where  the  prospect  opens 
most  to  the  eastward,  and  there,  against  the  purple 
and  the  gold  of  the  sunrise,  —  the  sun  himsel" 
not  having  struggled  yet  above  the  mountains,  — 
there  he  saw  the  monarch  of  them  all,  lying 
purple-gray  against  this  blazing  background,  with 
out  one  fillet  of  cloud  across  his  face,  nor  a  wreath 
of  mist  rising  from  his  valleys. 

The  weaver  accepted  the  signal  he  had  been 
longing  for.  "  Ah,  Monsieur  Mont  Blanc  !  "  he 
said  aloud,  "  you  are  a  good  friend  to  my  Mistress 
Felicie  this  day." 

How  little  the  good  fellow  thought  that  as  lately 
as  sunset  on  the  evening  before,  his  young  "  mis- 
tress "  had  been  throwing  her  kisses  from  the  hill 
of  Fourvieres  over  to  her  "  dear  old  friend." 

And  now  he  and  Barbe-Noire  were  fairly  in  foi 
their  work.  More  than  two  hours  had  passed 
since  he  crept  out  of  Lyons  in  the  darkness,  and 


74 


hV  HIS  NAME. 


daylight  must  make  up  for  the  time  which  had 
been  lost  in  the  creeping.  Barbe- Noire  was  as 
glad  as  he  for  the  right  to  take  a  quicker  pace,  ~ 
and  now  began  the  real  triumph  of  blood  and 
good  temper  and  good  breeding.  It  was  not  long 
that  the  road  held  the  high  ground.  As  the  sun 
at  last  rose  glorious  behind  the  Alps  themselves, 
and  the  thousand  ranges  of  castellated  mountains 
which  lay  against  the  heavy  line  of  the  Alps,  the 
descent  into  the  valley  again  began.  The  rider 
looked  his  last  on  Felicie's  old  friend,  and  let  his 
faithful  horse  take  as  fast  a  pace  as  he  dared  in 
the  descent.  Once  on  the  flats  again,  their  pace 
was  like  flying.  The  country  children  on  their 
way  to  morning  mass  looked  with  wonder,  and 
indeed  with  terror,  as  they  saw  this  coal-black 
horse,  with  nostrils  open  and  eyes  of  fire,  dash  by 
them.  The  rider  was  no  knight,  they  could  see 
that.  But  not  even  when  the  knights  from  Bur- 
gundy came  through  to  join  in  the  crusade  had 
these  children  seen  such  a  horse  or  such  a  rider. 
So  Prinhac  passed  village  after  village,  group  after 
group  of  church-goers,  and  began  to  feel  that  his 
work  was  more  certain  of  success  than  he  had 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


feared,  and  that  he  should  find  the  hidden  doctor, 
as  he  must  find  him,  before  noon  of  that  day.  If 
only  back  in  the  hills  there  were  any  horse  to 
bring  the  doctor  back  who  could  compare  with 
this  brave  Barbe-Noire ! 

Ah,  Prinhac !  ah,  Prinhac  !  What  says  the 
Scripture?  "The  race  is  not  to  the  swift  nor 
the  battle  to  the  strong."  As  he  was  passing 
through  the  little  hamlet  of  Dagnieu,  nodding 
good-naturedly  to  a  group  of  frightened  children, 
who  were  huddling  together  by  the  hedge  that 
they  might  be  out  of  his  way,  Barbe-Noire  trod 
with  his  forefoot  on  a  sheet  of  ice,  disguised  under 
a  cloud  of  slime  which  had  flowed  down  on  it  the 
day  before.  The  horse  slipped,  tried  to  rally, 
and  lost  the  regularity  of  his  pace  \  slipped  again, 
brought  up  his  hind  feet  on  the  same  treacherous 
ice,  and  before  his  master  could  draw  foot  from 
stirrup,  horse  and  rider  had  fallen  heavily  upon 
the  stones  of  the  wayside. 

Prinhac  uttered  no  sound.  But  he  was  fettered 
for  the  moment  beneath  the  weight  of  the  horse 
and  was  powerless.  Poor  Barbe-Noire  did  his 
best,  —  his  very  best.  Is  the  poor  fellow  maimed  1 


76 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


That  was  Prinhac's  first  thought,  —  whether  ha 
hirtjself  were  maimed  would  appear  afterwards. 

Then  he  made  outcry  enough  to  call  to  his  aid, 
first  a  frightened  girl,  and  then  her  brothers,  and 
then  every  man  and  woman  of  the  wretched  hanv 
let.  Barbe-Noire  had  in  the  mean  while  struggled 
to  his  feet.  But  Barbe-Noire  would  never  bear 
rider  again.  In  that  cruel  fall  the  horse's  slender 
fore-leg  had  broken  just  above  the  fetlock ;  and 
though  Prinhac  and  the  rest  tried  to  persuade 
themselves  that  this  was  but  a  sprain,  every  effort 
the  poor  beast  made  was  more  painful  to  see,  and 
it  needed  only  the  most  tender  touch  at  the  place 
where  the  bone  was  broken,  to  know  that  the 
calamity  could  never  be  cured. 

For  poor  Prinhac  himself  the  fall  had  been  as 
hard.  "  I  would  not  say  a  word,"  he  said,  "  if 
the  horse  could  only  move."  But  whether  he 
chose  to  say  a  word  or  no,  none  the  less  was  it 
clear  that  his  left  shoulder  on  which  he  had  fallen 
was  powerless.  The  truth  was,  that  his  arm  had 
been  wrenched  from  its  socket  by  the  blow. 

The  peasants  were  stupid,  but  were  kind.  One 
and  all  they  offeied  such  help  as  they  could,  and 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


77 


suggested  this  and  that  cabin  as  open  to  Prinhac 
till  the  priest  could  be  sent  for  or  at  Balan  below 
there  was  a  famous  farrier.  If  the  gentleman 
wished,  Ode,  here,  should  be  sent  on  the  gray 
mare  for  him.  But  Prinhac  listened  with  little 
favor  to  any  talk  of  the  priest,  nor  did  he  seem  to 
care  much  for  the  farrier.  "This  is  what  I  want, 
my  brave  friends,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to  send  a 
bit  of  vellum  as  big  as  your  two  fingers  to  the 
doctor  who  is  in  the  hills  beyond  Rambert  de 
Joux.  It  is  not  three  hours*  ride.  Who  will  go 
there  ? " 

Stupidly  they  all  listened,  and  no  one  answered. 
There  was  a  look  of  inquiry  which  passed  from 
each  to  each  which  would  have  been  droll  were 
not  the  occasion  so  serious.  It  seemed  to  say: 
"  Is  the  man  a  simpleton,  or  does  he  think  we  are 
simpletons  ? " 

"  Fifty  sols  in  silver,"  said  Prinhac,  cheerfully, 
"  to  the  man  who  will  take  this  bit  of  parchment  to 
the  charcoal-burner  Mark  of  Seyssel.  Who  is  the 
man,  or  who  is  the  pretty  girl  that  will  do  it?  "  as 
his  eye  fell  on  a  sun-burned  rnaiden.  "  Fifty  sola 
to  a  man,  or  sixty  to  a  g'rl." 


**8  IN  HIS  NAME. 

But  they  stood  as  if  he  spoke  Hebrew  to  them 
and  neither  girl  nor  man  replied. 

"Is  there  nobody,"  said  Prinhac,  discouraged 
more  by  his  failure  than  his  pain,  —  "nobody  who 
is  willing  to  save  a  dying  woman's  life  for  the  love 
of  Christ  ?"  — 

—  "  You  should  have  asked  that  before  !  "  said  a 
tall,  lithe  man,  speaking  in  the  purest  Romance, 
fie  had  seemed  perfectly  indifferent,  even  uncon- 
scious, until  he  heard  these  last  words.  "You 
should  have  asked  that  before.  Antoine,  Marie, 
take  these  brats  home.  Paul,  Jean,  Pierre,  the 
whole  troop  of  you,  lead  this  poor  beast  to  the 
priest's  house,  and  groom  him  well.  Felix,  show 
the  gentleman  the  way  to  Our  Lady's  stile." 
Then  he  turned  to  Prinhac,  — 

"This  is  a  noble  horse,  my  friend,  who  has 
borne  you  well ;  but  the  Arab  who  is  to  take  me 
to  your  doctor  can  give  minutes  to  any  beast  in 
the  Abbot's  stables,  and  shall  still  win  the  crown. 
You  will  find  me  at  Our  Lady's  stile,  ready  to 
&erve  you, — 


In  His  Name." 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


79 


Sure  enough,  when  poor  Prinhac,  who  walked 
stoutly  and  stiffly,  leaning  his  whole  weight,  as  it 
seemed,  on  the  shoulder  of  this  willing  Felix,  — 
when  he  came  to  Our  Lady's  stile,  here  was  his 
new  friend  mounted  on  a  noble  Arab,  of  the  breed 
which  at  that  time  was  just  finding  its  way  into 
Southern  France  from  the  ports  of  the  southern 
shore.  Prinhac  took  from  his  pocket  the  precious 
missive,  and  whispered  to  the  workman  the  direc- 
tions he  had  received  from  Giulio  the  Florentine. 
The  villager  had  a  little  switch  in  his  hand  with 
which  he  marked  in  the  air  the  sign  of  the  Cross 
of  Malta.  The  poor,  faint  weaver  did  the  same 
with  his  finger ;  and  they  parted,  the  one  for  his 
quick  ride,  the  other  for  such  comfort  as  he  could 
find  in  the  cabin  of  Pierre  Boronne. 


So 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


CHAPTER  V. 

LOST  AND  FOUND. 


Gualtier  of  the  Mill  knew  every  inch  of  the 
way  before  him,  knew  where  and  how  to  spare  his 
horse,  where  to  take  a  short  cut  by  ways  known 
to  scarcely  any  except  the  charcoal-burners,  where 
to  ford  a  stream,  and  how  to  save  a  hill.  So  far 
he  had  the  advantage  for  this  service  of  poor  Prin- 
hac,  whose  zeal  had  cost  him  so  dearly.  And 
Gualtier  of  the  Mill  trusted  more  openly  to  the 
talisman  which  they  had  both  been  using.  As  he 
worked  his  way  into  the  mountains,  he  had  less 
fear  of  any  spies  or  tip-staves  of  the  Bishop  and 
nis  crew,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  show  the  flag 
under  which  he  served.  It  happened  to  him,  as  it 
happened  to  Prinhac,  to  come  upon  one  of  the 
drawbridges  which  so  often  held  the  roadway 
where  it  crossed  a  stream.  But  the  moment  Gual- 
tier appeared  on  the  height  above,  it  was  enough 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


81 


for  him  to  mark  in  the  air  with  the  sign  of  the 
Cross  of  Malta,  and  the  attendants  of  the  bridge, 
some  sort  of  rural  gens-d'armes  known  in  those 
days,  ran  to  let  it  down  for  the  rider,  who  ac- 
knowledged the  courtesy  as  he  passed,  by  saying, 
gently,  "  It  is  for  the  love  of  Christ,"  and  received, 
as  he  knew  he  should,  the  countersign,  "And  in 
his  name."  The  road  became  more  and  more 
hilly,  but  in  an  hour  he  had  made  more  than  three 
good  leagues,  and  he  came  upon  the  picturesque 
height  of  Meximieux  just  as  the  people  from  vil- 
lage and  from  castle  had  poured  into  the  church 
for  the  Sunday  service  of  the  day. 

Gualtier  looked  round  him  and  saw  no  man. 
He  rode  to  the  church  door,  swung  himself  from 
the  horse,  which  he  left  wholly  unfastened,  and 
entered  in  the  midst  of  the  assembly,  who  were 
upon  their  knees.  Gualtier  knelt  also,  and  joined 
in  the  devotions ;  but  at  the  first  change  in  the 
order  of  the  service,  he  noted  one  worshipper 
whose  white  head  was  still  hidden  in  his  hands, 
bent  over  him,  and  whispered  "  For  the  love  of 
Christ."  The  old  man  rose  without  a  word,  and 
they  left  the  church  together.    A  moment's  con 

6 


82 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


ference.  and  he  bade  Gualtier  wait  for  him  whei  e 
the  road  turns  from  the  stable-gate  of  the  castle, 
he  swung  himself  over  the  hedge-stile  and  was 
gone.  Gualtier  of  the  Mill  walked  his  horse  to 
the  fork  in  the  road  which  had  been  indicated, 
and  at  the  same  moment  the  gray-haired  villager 
was  there  with  the  best  horse  from  the  Baron's 
stable.  Gualtier  left  his  own  in  his  care,  saluted 
as  before,  and  was  gone.  "  It  is  in  his  name/ 
said  his  new-found  friend. 

Two  hours  from  Meximieux  with  riding  so  fast 
should  have  brought  him  to  the  charcoal-burner's 
hut,  which  had  been  indicated  all  along  as  the 
station  at  which  he  was  aiming.  But  these  were 
no  longer  ways  for  travellers.  They  were  only 
the  paths  that -fagot-makers  or  charcoal-burners 
had  made  for  their  convenience  between  rocks, 
bushes,  and  trees,  and  which  at  their  convenience 
they  neglected  again.  Gualtier  of  the  Mill  used 
his  sense  as  long  as  any  man's  sense  could  save 
him  at  all.  He  chose  such  paths  as  led  a  little 
south  of  east,  as  he  had  been  bidden.  He  got 
a  glimpse  now  and  then  of  the  stronghold  above 
Rossillon,  passed,  as  he  was  bidden,  the  castle  of 


/A'  HIS  NAME. 


83 


Vieux-Mont-Ferrand  ;  but  at  last,  in  a  tangle  ol 
low,  scrubby  oaks,  and  amid  piles  of  rocks  which 
seemed  to  have  been  hurled  together  in  some 
play  of  ogres,  no  path  looked  promising  among 
the  sheep-tracks  and  the  traces  of  the  feet  of  the 
asses  and  mules,  from  whose  charcoal  loads  the 
litter  still  strewed  the  ground. 

Gualtier  of  the  Mill  stopped,  fairly  confounded. 
He  blew  a  shrill  whistle,  and  had  no  answer.  He 
dropped  his  reins  on  the  neck  of  his  horse,  and 
his  horse  stood  still.  He  faithfully  tried  the  path- 
way which  seemed  to  trend  most  to  the  eastward, 
and  it  led  him  in  fifty  yards  distance  to  the  place 
where  chips  on  the  ground  showed  that  the  wood- 
cutters had  taken  out  some  saplings  there,  and 
had  gone  no  farther.  He  came  back  to  the 
"  abomination  of  desolation,"  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  sat  undecided,  though  he  knew  indecision 
was  ruin,  and  it  seemed  to  him  a  voice  from 
heaven  when  he  heard  the  loud  laugh  of  a  little 
child. 

In  an  instant  the  child  was  hushed,  and  all  was 
still  again.  But  the  sound  was  enough  for  Gual- 
tier of  the  Mill    He  pushed  his  horse  to  the  place 


84 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


u  came  from,  through  a  close  thicket  of  tangled 
cedars  which  he  had  refused  to  try  before,  and 
after  a  steep  descent  came  out  on  a  group  of  a 
dozen  frightened  children  by  the  side  of  a  brook. 
They  had  been  at  play  there,  had  heard  his  horse's 
footsteps,  and  had  been  frightened  into  silence  by 
the  sound.  For  in  the  lawlessness  of  those  times, 
the  havoc  made  by  everybody  who  rode  on  horse- 
back, whether  he  rated  himself  as  knight,  squire, 
man-at-arms,  or  highwayman,  was  such  that  peas- 
ant children  like  these,  in  such  a  wilderness  as  this, 
had  much  the  same  notion  of  such  travellers  as 
had  the  old  crone  whom  Prinhac  had  summoned  in 
the  early  morning.  And  so  the  older  brothers 
and  sisters  of  this  group  had  been  trying  to  keep 
the  little  ones  silent  till  the  horseman  should 
go  by. 

Gualtier  of  the  Mill  drew  up  his  horse  when,  he 
saw  the  pretty  company,  and  in  a  cheerful  way 
said,  Who  is  playing  fox  and  goose  here  ? " 
And  the  little  children  hid  behind  the  bigger  ones, 
and  the  bigger  ones  hung  their  heads,  and  said 
nothing. 

"  And  which  of  you  can  tell  me  the  way  to  the 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


85 


house  of  Mark  of  Scyssel,  where  the  road  from 
Culoz  comes  in  ?  " 

The  little  children  hid  behind  the  bigger  ones, 
and  the  bigger  ones  hung  their  heads,  as  before. 

"  Now  I  really  hoped,"  said  the  good-natured 
miller,  "I  really  hoped  I  had  found  one  of  Mark's 
little  girls  ;  and  I  really  hoped  she  would  .show  me 
the  way.  At  my  home  I  have  four  girls  and  five 
boys,  and  they  all  know  all  the  sheep-tracks  and  al? 
the  horse-tracks.  And  when  Father  Antony  comes 
and  says,  '  Who  will  mount  my  mule  and  show  me 
the  way?'  why  Jean  runs,  and  Gertrude  runs,  and 
Antoine  runs,  and  Marie  runs,  and  all  of  them 
want  to  show  him." 

The  miller  understood  the  way  to  children's 
hearts.  But  these  children  had  been  trained  to 
hold  their  peace  among  strangers.  More  than 
once,  as  the  older  of  them  knew,  had  life  depended 
on  their  discretion ;  and  so  stolid  were  their  faces 
as  Gualtier  of  the  Mill  tried  his  seductions,  that 
even  he  was  deceived.  He  fairly  thought  they 
did  not  know  what  the  words  meant  which  he  was 
speaking. 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  the  silver  whis!Je 


86 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


which  he  had  blown  just  before.  He  sprang  from 
his  horse,  and  let  the  creature  go  at  large.  He 
sat  down  on  the  ground  by  the  youngest  child, 
and  with  the  whistle,  which  was  a  flageolet  indeed, 
of  the  range  of  a  few  notes,  played,  for  the  child's 
amusement,  a  little  air ;  and  then,  taking  the  little 
thing  upon  his  knee,  tried  if  he  would  not  take 
the  plaything.  The  child  seemed  to  dread  the 
reproof  of  the  older  children,  but  the  bauble  was 
too  tempting  to  be  resisted ;  and  when  the  pipe 
gave  out  a  shrill,  sharp  sound  at  his  effort,  the 
little  thing  laughed  and  became  more  fearless,  and 
seemed  more  willing  to  be  won.  Gualtier  followed 
up  his  victory ;  and  in  the  rough  dialect  of  the 
Dauphin  mountains,  which  he  spoke  as  easily  as 
the  Provencal  in  which  he  had  been  talking,  he 
said  again,  — 

"  It  is  Mark  of  Seyssel,  the  charcoal  merchant, 
whom  I  want  to  find.  Mark  of  Seyssel  has  some 
good  little  girls.  Do  you  not  know  his  little 
girls  ?  I  have  a  bright  silver  sol  here  for  each  of 
them." 

You  are  a  cunning  fowler,  Gualtier,  and  you  are 
a  keen  fisherman.    But  here  are  fish  who  will  not 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


87 


bite  at  every  bait.  It  is  one  of  Mark's  little  boys 
whom  you  have  upon  your  knee.  And  that  tall, 
brave  child,  whose  hair  is  braided  in  with  a  strip 
of  red  ribbon,  is  one  of  his  girls.  But  they  know 
too  well  that  they  are  to  say  nothing  of  roads  un- 
less they  know  they  speak  to  friends.  And  not  a 
flash  of  intelligence  passes  from  one  heavy  eye  to 
another. 

Then  the  miller  wondered  if  perhaps  these 
oldest  children,  wise  as  he  saw  them  to  be,  had 
•been  trusted  with  secrets  more  precious  than  the 
mere  guarding  of  a  roadway.  Still  speaking  in 
the  mountain  dialect,  he  said,  as  if  he  were  speak- 
ing to  the  wind,  without  addressing  one  child 
more  than  another,  "This  is  life  and  death  for 
which  I  am  travelling.  A  dear,  loving  girl  will 
die  this  night,  if,  before  the  sun  is  at  noon,  I  do 
not  find  the  house  of  Mark  of  Seyssel.  I  wonder 
if  any  one  could  show  me  his  house  if  I  asked  for 
the  Love  of  Christ  ?  " 

The  brown-haired  girl,  and  the  stupid  boy,  and 
the  other  boy  who  held  the  long,  peeled  rod,  and 
the  other  tall  girl  who  had  a  baby  in  her  arms,  — 
all  started  at  the  spell.    The  first  of  the  fow 


88 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


spoke  in  Provencal,  and  said,  "I  will  lead  you 
gl  adly  to  my  father's,  now  I  know  you  come 

In  His  Name." 

And  in  a  minute  more  he  was  in  the  saddle 
again ;  the  child  was  sitting  across  it  before  him, 
he  was  pushing  through  this  tangle  and  over  that 
ford,  scrambling  up  a  hill-side,  and  then  threading 
a  low  growth  of  underbrush,  till,  in  less  than  a 
mile  from  the  point  where  he  had  lost  himself,  the 
girl  found  voice  again ;  and,  speaking  in  Proven- 
9al  as  before,  said,  "There  is  my  father's  store- 
house." And  as  she  pointed,  on  the  other  side  of 
a  little  clearing  in  the  forest,  he  saw  a  rough 
cabin,  built  half  of  logs  and  half  of  rough  stones. 
From  a  hole  in  the  roof,  quite  too  large,  and 
indeed  of  too  little  architectural  form,  to  be  called 
a  chimney,  a  volume  of  smoke  was  pouring.  With- 
out this  token,  indeed,  the  loud  voices  of  the  men 
within  would  have  taught  the  traveller  that  the 
charcoal-burner's  hut  was  not  deserted. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE  CHARCOAL-BURNER 


The  science  of  the  iron  forges  in  the  valley 
below  had  already  reached  some  work  so  fine  that 
the  workmen  there  had  instructed  the  peasants  of 
the  hills,  and  sent  them  to  a  separate  industry  of 
burning  and  packing  pine,  chestnut,  and  oak  char- 
coal, to  be  used  in  the  manufacture  of  the  finer 
steels.  Many  a  man  who  was  part  hunter  and 
part  shepherd  was  willing  to  provide  himself  with 
his  salt,  with  a  few  nails,  with  iron  heads  to  his 
arrows,  and  with  better  pipkins  and  mugs  than 
they  baked  in  the  mountains,  by  answering  the 
demand.  The  rough  fellows  had  found,  however, 
that  it  was  better  to  make  but  one  business  of 
their  trade  with  the  iron  and  steel  men ;  and  so 
now,  for  a  generation  and  more,  this  rough  cabin, 
where  Mark  of  Seyssel  now  presided,  had  become 
a  rendezvous  for  the  charcoal-burners,  and  thej 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


had  been  in  the  habit  of  storing  here  the  full  bags 
in  which  they  had  packed  their  coals  ready  for' 
the  mules. 

In  the  middle  of  the  cabin  or  hut,  on  an  open 
place  for  fire,  there  were  piled  a  dozen  great  logs, 
which  made  a  cheerful  point  of  union  for  the 
group,  and  from  which,  through  a  great,  square 
hole  in  the  roof,  passed  out  the  weird  column  of 
smoke  which  first  caught  the  eye  of  the  trav- 
eller. Around  this,  sitting  and  lying  in  every 
possible  attitude,  was  the  company  of  the  lazy 
peasants,  getting  rid  of  the  winter  day  as  best 
they  could. 

"  If  you  ever  see  Lambert  this  side  of  purga- 
tory, call  me  a  liar.  When  I  saw  him  cross  the 
old  bay,  with  his  new  baldric  on  him,  I  said, 
'  Good-by,  Lambert,  we  shall  never  meet  again.' 
And  I  said  it  because  I  knew  it." 

"But  why  do  you  know  it,  and  how  do  you 
know  it  ? "  persisted  the  man  with  whom  the 
speaker  was  talking.  He  sat  shaping  a  bow, 
and  letting  the  shavings  of  ash  fall  upon  the  live 
coals,  as  he  made  them.  "  How  do  you  know  it? 
Here  at  Blon  I  talked  with  the  innkeeperf  witb 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


9» 


all  the  grooms,  and  with  Sirand  himself.  They 
all  said  that  the  Saracens  would  not  stand  the 
first  battle  with  our  men.  They  said  there  would 
be  a  new  king  at  Jerusalem  before  Easter ;  and 
that  long  before  another  Christmas  the  Bishop 
would  be  at  Lyons  again,  King  Philip  in  Paris, 
King  Richard  in  England ;  and  by  the  same 
token  the  Count  will  be  in  his  castle,  and  Lam- 
bert and  Raymond  and  Forney  and  all  the  boys 
would  be  back  here,  with  shells  on  their  hats,  and 
with  gold  in  their  pockets." 

"  Much  does  Sirand  know,"  retorted  the  impla- 
cable grumbler,  who  began  :  "  Has  he  talked  with 
the  Saracens?  Has  their  famous  king,  the  Lord 
Saladin,  told  him  that  thev  were  all  going  to  run 
away  at  the  first  battle  ?  Has  he  been  to  see 
Jerusalem,  that  he  thinks  it  a  summer  day's  jour- 
ney to  go  there  ?  As  for  the  innkeeper  at  Blon, 
the  man  is  a  fool.  The  last  time  I  was  there,  he 
would  have  persuaded  me  to  my  face  that  I  did 
not  not  know  a  walnut  bow  from  one  made  of  ash. 
I  wish  he  may  be  choked  with  his  own  porridge. 
And  if  his  grooms  know  no  more  of  Saladin's 
men  than  they  know  of  Frenchmen's  horses,  theii 


Q2 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


fcilk  is  not  worth  retailing.  I  tell  you  it  is  a  fool's 
errand  they  have  all  gone  upon,  and  you  will 
never  see  Lambert's  face  again." 

"  Is  it  a  fool's  errand,"  struck  in  a  little,  lame 
man  who  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  so  that 
the  two  could  hardly  see  him,  "to  redeem  the 
grave  of  Our  Blessed  Lord,  and  Our  Blessed  Lady, 
his  mother,  and  of  more  saints  than  I  could  name 
or  you  can  count,  from  these  misbegotten  dogs, 
heathen  and  sons  of  heathen?  Did  you  hear  the 
Father  tell  how  they  flayed  alive  that  poor  Mary 
of  Picardy  when  she  went  on  a  pilgrimage  ?  Did 
you  hear  him  tell  how  they  built  their  cursed  fire 
against  St.  Joseph's  tomb,  and  cracked  the  col- 
umns, and  heaved  dirt  upon  the  stone?  Fool's 
errand,  indeed !  It's  well  for  them  to  call  it  a 
fool's  errand  who  stay  idling  here  at  home.  But 
had  I  two  feet  to  walk,  or  a  leg  to  cross  a  mule,  I 
would  not  be  hanging  round  here,  throwing  shame 
on  better  men." 

"Limping  Pierre,"  replied  the  other,  good- 
naturedly,  "  I  have  heard  you  say  that  thing  be- 
fore, or  what  came  to  the  same  end ;  and,  if  you 
choose,  you  may  say  ;t  seven  times  more,  nay 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


93 


seventy  times  seven,  as  the  Gospel  says,  and  I  will 
never  quarrel  with  as  good  a  fellow  as  you  are. 
But  two  things  you  know  and  I  know :  one  is,  that 
Ambrose  cared  no  more  for  Our  Lady  nor  for  St. 
Joseph's  tomb  than  he  cared  for  the  snow  on  the 
top  of  the  mountain,  nor  would  he  go  one  step  of 
hi:,  lazy  life  to  save  them  both  from  pollution. 
He  went  because  he  saw  the  others  go,  and  he 
chose  to  be  fed  without  working,  and  to  sleep  on 
linen  that  other  men's  wives  had  woven.  He 
thought  he  should  come  back  with  gold  he  had 
not  earned,  and  should  hector  over  you  and  me 
and  other  honest  people  because  he  had  a  shell 
m  his  hat-band.  As  for  making  war  upon  peo- 
ple because  they  are  dogs  and  the  sons  of  clogs, 
because  their  prayers  are  false,  and  their  lives 
mean,  —  why,  we  might  make  war  on  the  Bishop 
and  Chapter  of  Lyons  for  quite  as  good  cause  as 
they  have  to  make  war  on  King  Saladin  and  his 
emirs,  if  that  happens  to  be  his  name." 

The  bold  effrontery  of  the  allusion  to  the  Bishop 
and  Chapter  was  welcomed  by  a  guffaw  of  laughtei 
from  some  of  the  lazy  throng ;  but  others  fairly 
started,  not  so  much  in  anger  as  in  terror.  "  Keep 


94 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


a  civil  tongue  in  your  head,  Matthew,  or  it  will  be 
the  worse  for  all  of  us.  There  is  treason  enough 
and  heresy  enough  talked  in  this  store  to  give  all 
the  hamlets  over  to  the  couriers,  and  we  may  be 
sen.  a-begging  before  we  know  it,  with  our  wives 
and  our  children." 

But  to  this  protest  Mark  of  Seyssel  himself 
made  answer,  speaking  for  the  first  time :  — 

"Jean  Fisherman,  if  you  do  not  like  the  talk 
here,  you  need  not  stay  here.  If  you  have  any 
gossip  to  retail  to  the  Courier  or  the  Viguier  you 
had  better  go  and  retail  it,  and  good  riddance  to 
you.  I  am  master  of  this  hovel,  and  it  is  my 
castle ;  when  I  am  afraid  of  my  guests,  I  will  turn 
them  out-doors.  Till  I  am  afraid  of  them,  they 
will  not  check  each  other's  talk.  For  my  own 
part,"  said  the  burly  collier,  "  I  am  quite  of  black- 
eyed  Matt's  mind,  and  I  drink  his  very  good 
health.  When  the  pot  is  white,  it  may  scold  the 
kettle  for  being  black ;  but  while  the  priests  and 
the  abbots  send  men  from  their  homes  because 
they  feed  the  poor ;  when  they  take  their  houses 
and  steal  their  goods  to  make  themselves  comfort- 
able,—  why,  if  they  do  go  to  the  Holy  Land  witb 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


95 


his  Grace  the  King  and  his  Holiness  the  Bishop, 
I  am  afraid  they  will  carry  no  better  Gospel  than 
they  left  behind.  For  my  part,  I  wish  I  could  see 
men  here  live  as  the  saints  lived,  before  they  go 
to  whip  the  Saracens  into  living  so."  And  the 
stout  collier  took  from  the  settle  by  him  a  tank- 
ard from  which  he  had  been  drinking,  passed  it 
to  black-eyed  Matthew,  as  he  called  the  bow- 
maker,  and  bade  him  give  to  the  others  to  drink 
in  their  turn. 

It  was  just  as  he  had  done  this  that  there 
was  heard  at  the  heavy  doorway  the  sharp  rap  of 
the  handle  of  Gualtier's  riding-whip,  and  on  the 
instant  the  charcoal-burner  bade  him  enter.  The 
man  seemed  a  little  surprised  at  the  sight  oi 
his  own  daughter  with  the  stranger.  The  child 
clearly  felt  that  her  duty  was  clone.  She  dropped 
a  courtesy,  and  was  off  to  the  shelter  of  the  shrub- 
bery in  an  instant.  The  collier  offered  Gualtier 
a  seat  by  the  fire.  But  the  whole  assembly  was 
hushed,  so  that  no  one  would  have  guessed  that 
they  were  all  in  talk  so  eager  only  the  momeiV 
before. 

"  Are  you  Mark  the  collier  ?  "  eaH  the  messen 


96 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


ger.    "  I  am  told  that  you  can  direct  me  to  the 
house  of  Father  Jean  of  Lugio." 

"  Eh  ?  "  was  the  only  reply  of  the  stout  collier, 
who  but  just  now  was  so  voluble,  and  was  defend- 
ing so  volubly  the  sacred  rights  of  volubility  in 
others. 

"  I  have  been  riding  at  my  best  to  find  Father 
Jean  of  Lugio.  I  am  told  he  makes  his  home 
in  these  parts.  And  he  is  needed,  sorely  needed, 
to-day  in  Lyons.    I  have  a  message  for  him  here." 

"  Eh  ? "  was  the  grunt  again  which  the  fuller 
explanation  extorted  from  the  collier.  Gualtier 
was  surprised.  He  had  never  seen  this  man,  but 
he  had  not  supposed  him  to  be  an  idiot.  And  he 
had  certainly  supposed  that  a  person  who  trans-  ~ 
acted  so  much  business  in  the  valley  would  have 
some  knowledge  of  the  Provencal.  But  he  re- 
peated his  explanation,  and  more  at  length,  in  the 
hill  dialect,  in  which  he  had  spoken  to  the  collier's 
children. 

"  Eh  ?  "  was  the  stupid  reply  as  before.  But 
then  the  clown  looked  up  heavily  upon  the  others, 
and  in  the  same  language  said,  "  Boys,  do  you 
hear  what  the  gentleman  says?    Do  any  of  you 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


97 


know  any  thing  of  this  Jean  of  Lugio,  this  Father 
whom  he  has  come  to  see  ?  " 

The  men  looked  stupidly  upon  each  other,  as 
if  they  could  not  understand  this  dialect  any  more 
than  he  could  understand  the  Provencal  of  the 
miller. 

Gualtier  looked  round  to  see  if  one  face  were 
any  more  intelligent  than  the  others.  Then  he 
took  from  his  pocket  six  or  eight  pieces  of  silver, 
tossed  them  in  the  air,  and  caught  them  again  in 
his  hand.  Speaking  in  the  same  dialect,  he  said, 
"  These  are  for  any  good  fellow  who  will  go  to  the 
house  of  the  Father  for  me ;  and  here  are  as  many 
more  for  any  one  who  comes  back  with  him." 
But  a  dead,  stupid  wonder,  which  hardly  counted 
for  curiosity,  was  the  only  emotion  which  seemed 
to  be  aroused,  even  by  this  unwonted  display. 
Gualtier  of  the  Mill  felt  as  if,  even  at  the  last 
moment,  he  was  foiled.  "  A  tall  man,"  he  said, 
"with  a  tonsure,  and  the  hair  around  it,  as  white 
as  snow.  He  bends  a  little  as  he  walks  he  is  so 
tall  ;  he  favors  his  right  foot  in  walking." 

"Eh?"  from  Mark  of  Seyssel,  was  the  only 
answer. 

7 


g8 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


Gualtier  was  provoked  with  himself  that  he  had 
not  kept  the  child.  The  child  at  least  could 
speak,  and  could  understand.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  of  the  group  of  idlers  there  was  not  one,  no, 
not  the  stout  head  of  the  castle  himself,  who 
seemed  to  take  the  least  interest  in  his  mission. 
Far  less  could  they  help  him,  if  they  had  chosen. 

In  his  annoyance  that  he  had  lost  his  guide, 
he  walked  to  the  door  to  see  if  he  could  trace 
her ;  but  she  was  out  of  sight  long  ago.  He 
turned  back,  and  the  others  were  sitting  as  stolidly 
as  he  found  them.  On  the  instant,  however,  the 
inspiration  came  to  him,  and  he  saw  that  the  talis- 
man by  which  he  had  succeeded  with  her  might 
be  as  effective  with  these  churls.  In  truth,  the 
dulness  of  the  men  had  entirely  deceived  him. 
He  had  lost  his  presence  of  mind,  and  was  fairly 
confused  by  the  charcoal-dealer's  well-acted  stu- 
pidity. As  Gaultier  closed  the  door  again,  he 
took  up  a  bit  of  charcoal  from  the  floor,  and,  as  if 
to  amuse  himself  in  a  careless  habit,  on  the  door 
itself  drew  roughly  a  Roman  cross,  of  which  the 
vertical  line  was  not  longer  than  the  crossbar, 
and  then  with  a  few  touches  improved  upon  it  till 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


99 


it  became  the  Cross  of  Malta,  with  its  sharp  points 
and  re-entering  angles  at  each  extremity. 


Beneath  the  cross  he  wrote  in  Latin  the  two 
words,  "Amore  Christi." 

Before  he  had  finished  the  inscription,  the  bow- 
maker  had  risen  from  the  ground  and  was  putting 
on  his  outer  jerkin,  as  if  to  leave  the  fire.  Two 
others  of  the  idlers,  also,  seemed  to  have  done  all 
they  had  to  do  in  the  cabin,  and  made  as  if  they 
were  going  away.  Mark  of  Seyssel  himself  said 
aloud,  "  It's  nigh  to  noon,  and  I  shall  sit  here  no 
longer.  If  Francois  comes,  bid  him  ask  the  old 
woman  where  I  am."  So  saying,  he  brushed  out 
by  Gualtier,  and,  as  he  opened  the  door,  said  to 
him,  "  Come  away  from  them  into  the  air."  As 
the  miller  followed  him,  he  led  the  way  apart  from 
ear-shot  in  the  house,  and  said,  "  You  should  have 
made  some  signal  before.    There  are  men  in  tbat 


IOO 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


hut  that  would  gladly  put  the  Father  in  irons,  and 
throw  him  into  the  lake  of  Bourget.  But  you  can 
trust  me,  and  indeed  more  than  me,  if  you  come 

In  His  Name." 

Then  Gualtier  told  the  awakened  savage  who 
he  was,  and  why  he  came ;  that  he  had  in  his 
hand  what  he  was  told  it  was  of  the  first  impor- 
tance that  the  Father  should  know ;  that  he  had 
been  bid  to  bring  this  missive  "for  the  love 
of  Christ,"  and  that  he  had  agreed  to  do  so  "  in 
his  name."  He  told  Mark  of  Seyssel  that,  as 
token  of  his  truth,  he  would  trust  the  parchment 
to  him,  and  that  he  might  carry  it  to  the  master's 
hiding-place  ;  that  the  master  then  could  make 
his  own  choice  whether  to  v  jme  or  to  refuse. 
"  Only  this  I  know,"  said  the  miller,  "  that  if  he  do 
not  show  himself  at  this  spot  ready  to  mount  my 
horse  here  when  the  sun  is  at  noon,  I  see  no  use 
of  his  coming  here  at  all ;  for  the  order  is  that  he 
is  to  cross  the  bridge  at  Lyons  before  the  sun  goes 
down.  You  know,  my  friend,"  said  he,  "that  he 
is  a  brave  horseman  who  makes  that  distance  in 
that  time." 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


lOI 


The  collier  hurried  away.  The  rider  returned 
into  the  hut  and  threw  himself  on  the  ground  by 
Jean  the  fisherman.  Jean  was  anxious  enough  to 
try  to  find  out  who  the  stranger  was,  and  to  learn 
more  of  the  errand  on  which  he  had  come ;  but 
Gualtier  was  as  shrewd  as  he  was,  parried  ques- 
tion with  question,  and  for  an  hour  the  group  was 
as  much  in  doubt  as  when  he  found  them  as  to 
his  business.  He  had  sense  enough  to  produce  a 
flask  of  wine  from  behind  the  saddle  of  his  horse, 
and  offered  this  in  token  of  good-fellowship  to  the 
company.  They  talked  about  the  frost,  about  the 
freshet,  about  the  price  of  coal,  about  the  new 
mines  of  iron  ;  and  they  had  approached  the  cen 
tral  subject  of  the  great  crusade  again,  when  Mark 
of  Seyssel  again  entered  the  smoky  cabin. 

He  took  the  place  he  had  left  by  the  fire,  and 
said  to  the  miller,  "I  have  given  to  your  horse 
all  the  oats  I  had,  and  he  has  eaten  them  all." 
He  said  this  gruffly ;  and  those  who  were  not  in 
the  secret  might  well  imagine,  as  he  meant  they 
should,  that  his  interview  with  the  stranger  had 
related  chiefly  to  his  horse's  welfare.  Gualtier 
thanked  him  with  the  good  nature  he  had  shown 


102 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


all  along,  counted  out  copper  enough  to  pay  for 
the  oats,  bade  the  party  good-by,  and  said  he 
would  go  farther  on  his  journey.  He  crossed  the 
opening  to  the  place  where  the  horse  was  tethered, 
and  there,  under  the  juniper-tree  to  which  he  was 
fastened,  he  found,  as  he  had  hoped  to  find, 
Father  Jean  of  Lugio. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


I03 


CHAPTER  VII. 

JOHN  OF  LUGIO. 

John  of  Lugio  is  one  of  the  men  who  did 
the  world  service  wellnigh  inestimable  in  his 
day,  and  who  is  to-day,  by  the  world  at  large,  for- 
gotten. When  one  reads  in  the  Epistle  to  the 
Hebrews  of  men  who  had  trial  of  mockings 
and  scourgings,  of  bonds  and  imprisonments  \ 
who  were  destitute,  afflicted,  tormented ;  who 
wandered  in  deserts  and  mountains  and  dens 
and  caves  of  the  earth,  —  "of  whom  the  world 
was  not  worthy,"  —  one  ought  to  remember  for 
a  moment  that  he  probably  owes  it  to  a  few  groups 
of  such  men,  one  of  whom  was  this  forgotten  J  oho 
of  Lugio,  that  he  is  able  to  read  those  words  at 
all,  or  is  indeed  permitted  to  do  so. 

When  Peter  Waldo,  the  prosperous  merchant 
of  Lyons,  was  first  awakened  to  the  value  of  the 
Gospel  for  all  men  around  him,  and  saw  theil 


104 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


ignorance  of  it  as  well,  he  gave  himself  and  his 
means  not  only  to  feeding  the \hungry  and  finding 
homes  for  the  homeless,  but  to  wayside  instruc- 
tion in  the  words  of  Christ.  He  found  one  and 
another  version  of  parts  of  the  Old  and  New  Tes- 
tament in  the  Romance  language.  The  very  oldest 
specimen  of  that  language  which  we  have  to-day 
is  a  paraphrase,  of  a  generation  or  two  before 
Peter  Waldo's  time,  of  the  Bible  history.  It  is 
known  by  the  name  of  the  "  Noble  Lesson."  The 
troubadours,  whom  we  are  wont  to  think  of  as 
mere  singers  of  love  songs  and  romances,  were 
in  those  days  quite  as  apt  to  sing  these  sacred 
songs  ;  and  they  carried  from  place  to  place  a  more 
distinct  knowledge  of  the  Bible  stories  than  the 
people  gained  in  churches. 

Peter  Waldo  undertook  to  improve  the  popular 
knowledge  of  the  Bible  thus  gained.  This  was  an 
important  part  of  his  enterprise.  He  had  himself 
a  sufficient  knowledge  of  Latin  to  read  the  Latin 
vulgate.  To  translate  this  into  the  language  of 
Provence,  he  gained  the  assistance  of  three  intel 
ligent  priests,  all  of  them  in  office  in  Lyons, 
They  were  Bernard  of  Ydros,  Stephen  of  Empsa 


AV  HIS  NAME. 


and  John  of  Lugio,  With  whom  the  reader  is  now 
to  become  acquainted.  Neither  of  the  three  sup 
posed  that  there  was  any  thing  exceptional  in 
their  enterprise,  as  how  should  they?  They  and 
their  friend  were  at  work  to  teach  the  common 
oeople  the  "  Word  of  God  "  more  simply  and  per- 
fectly, and  what  better  could  they  do?  Of  the 
three,  Stephen  undertook  the  work  of  translation 
especially  ;  John  examined  the  other  translations 
and  compared  them  with  Stephen's,  —  he  studied 
the  critics,  sought  in  every  direction  the  best  au- 
thorities, and  made  this  new  Bible  of  the  people 
as  perfect  as  careful  scholarship  and  the  best 
learning  of  the  time  could  do.  Bernard  took  the 
more  humble  part  of  transcribing  the  text  agreed 
upon,  —  more  humble,  but  not  less  important. 
Probably  a  careful  explorer  in  the  old  convent 
libraries  of  the  south  of  France  might  now  find 
his  patient  manuscripts,  even  after  the  ruthless 
destruction  wrought  by  the  persecutors  of  that 
century  and  the  century  which  followed.  When 
Peter  Waldo  made  his  journey  to  Rome,  to  ask 
for  the  benediction  of  the  Pope  on  their  labors, 
one  or  all  of  these  men  probably  accompanied 


1C6  IN  HIS  NAME. 

him.  As  has  been  said  already,  the  Pope  was 
only  too  glad  to  find  that  such  assistance  in  the 
organization  of  religion  was  raised  up  among  the 
laymen  of  Lyons.  The  scheme  prepared  was  very 
much  like  that  which  St.  Francis  proposed  only  a 
few  years  later ;  where  it  differed  from  his,  it  dif- 
fered in  a  more  broad  and  generous  understand- 
ing of  the  needs  of  the  great  body  of  the  people. 

If  only  the  Bishop  and  Chapter  of  Lyons  had 
been  equal  to  the  exigency !  But,  alas,  they  were 
not  equal  to  it.  To  them  the  great  reality  of 
religion  was  their  newly-bought  temporal  power 
over  the  city  and  country.  The  interference  of 
merchants,  whether  as  almoners  or  as  lay  readers 
in  the  affairs  of  the  city,  was  no  part  of  their 
plan.  They  had  not  bought  out  the  Count  of 
Forez,  and  freed  themselves  from  his  dictation, 
to  be  dictated  to  now  by  a  set  of  fanatics  within 
their  own  wall.  They  therefore,  as  has  been  said, 
refused  all  approval  to  the  plans  of  Peter  Waldo ; 
they  excommunicated  him  and  his,  confiscated 
their  property,  and  drove  them  from  their  homes. 

Such  ciises  try  men's  souls,  and  it  is  from  such 
fires  that  tempered  metal  only  comes  out  unia 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


107 


jured.  Of  the  four  men  who  had  worked  together 
in  the  distribution  of  the  new  Bible,  two  were 
taken  and  two  were  left.  Peter  Waldo  endured 
the  loss  of  all  things,  travelled  over  the  world  of 
Europe,  and  left  everywhere  his  great  idea  of  a 
Bible  for  the  people,  and  of  a  church  in  which 
layman  as  well  as  priest  was  a  minister  to  God. 
Bernard  and  Stephen  could  not  stand  the  test. 
They  made  their  peace  with  the  authorities  of  the 
Lyonese  church,  and  no  man  knows  their  after 
history.1  John  of  Lugio,  whom  we  ask  the  reader 
of  these  lines  to  remember  among  the  men  of 
whom  the  wrorld  of  his  own  time  was  not  worthy, 
never  turned  back  from  the  plough.  He  hai 
consecrated  his  life  to  this  idea  of  a  free  Bible 
To  this  idea  he  gave  his  life.  It  would  be  hard 
to  name  any  city  of  Central  Europe,  even  as  fai 
as  Bohemia,  which  did  not  profit  by  his  counsel? 
and  his  studies.  And  when  John  Huss  went  to 
the  stake,  in  loyalty  to  the  same  idea,  he  and  the 
men  around  him  were  willing  to  acknowledge  theii 
obligation  to  John  of  Lugio  and  to  Peter  Waldo. 
The  piiest  stood  waiting  for  the  miller,  cult 
1  See  Appendix 


io8  IN  HIS  NAME. 

ous  to  know  what  manner  of  man  he  was  who 
had  so  resolutely  brought  the  message  which  he 
held.  He  was  not  himself  dressed  in  the  cos- 
tume of  any  ecclesiastical  order ;  nor  was  he,  on 
the  other  hand  dressed  as  any  nobleman,  far  less 
as  any  soldier  of  the  time  would  have  been.  He 
might  have  been  taken  for  some  merchant's  mes- 
senger, sent  back  from  Lyons  into  the  country  on 
a  message  about  flax  or  woollen.  His  white  haii 
appeared  below  a  traveller's  hat ;  his  tonsure,  oi 
course,  was  invisible.  His  surcoat  was  tightly 
buttoned,  as  for  a  cold  ride.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  color  or  in  the  fashion  of  his  costume  such 
as  would  challenge  the  remark  of  any  wayfarer. 

"  I  am  not  Jean  Waldo's  own  messenger,"  was 
the  immediate  reply  of  Gualtier  of  the  Mill,  to 
his  first  inquiry ;  "I  am  only,  as  you  see,  a  6  Poor 
Man  of  Lyons/  who  was  recognized  as  such  by 
our  secret  password  when  the  messenger  to  whom 
Jean  Waldo  gave  this  mission  fell  with  his  good 
hcrse  almost  at  my  house  door.  It  was  clear 
enough  that  if  the  message  meant  any  thing  it 
meant  speed.  This  Prinhac  crossed  the  draw- 
bridge at  Lyons  before  daybreak,  because  the 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


109 


bridge  was  held  by  one  of  our  people  ;  but  one 
cannot  tell  if  there  shall  be  any  such  good  for- 
tune this  evening.  The  bridge  may  be  held  by 
your  worst  enemy.  Why  !  you  have  scant  five 
hours  to  make  these  twelve  leagues  which  have 
cost  us  wellnigh  seven  hours.  True,  you  have 
to  go  down  the  hills,  which  we  have  had  to  climb. 
Your  horses  will  be  ready,  while  ours  had  to  be 
groomed  and  saddled.  But,  holy  Father,  it  will 
not  answer  to  have  any  horse  fall  under  you  ;  for 
if  I  understand  the  message  I  have  brought,  it  is 
not  every  lay-brother  who  can  take  your  place  to 
night  at  yon  girl's  bedside. " 

Father  John  would  not  even  smile.  "  The  Lord 
will  direct,"  he  said,  "  and  the  Lord  will  provide. 
Whether  my  journey  helps  or  hinders,  only  the 
Lord  knows.  But  it  seems  to  be  His  work.  For 
the  love  of  Christ  I  am  summoned,  and  in  his 
name  I  go.  Young  man,"  he  added,  as  Gualtier 
of  the  Mill  adjusted  for  him  the  stirrups  of  the 
noble  horse  who  was  to  bear  him,  "when  I  left 
Lyons,  they  burned  in  the  public  square  the  pre- 
cious books  to  which  I  had  given  twenty  of  the 
best  years  of  this  little  life.    What  I  could  do 


IiO 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


tor  God  and  his  holy  church,  they  vainly  tried 
co  destroy.  They  compelled  me  to  part  from  my 
own  poor ;  from  the  widows  whose  tears  were 
sacred ;  from  the  orphans  I  had  taught  and  had 
fed  ;  from  humble  homes,  which  are  as  so  many 
temples  to  me  of  God's  well-beloved  Son.  I  said 
then,  as  their  mocking  Viguier  led  me  to  the 
drawbridge,  which  I  am  to  pass  to-night,  and 
bade  me  '  Begone/  —  I  said,  I  will  not  see  you 
henceforth  till  the  day  in  which  ye  shall  say, 
'  Blessed  is  he  that  cometh  in  the  name  of  the 
Lord.'  Young  man,  this  Jean  Waldo,  to  whose 
household  I  am  bidden,  lifted  no  hand  for  me 
that  day,  nor  for  his  kinsman,  my  noble  friend, 
nor  for  one  of  the  '  Poor  Men  of  Lyons,'  or  her 
poor  women  or  children.  But  time  brings  its 
recompense ;  and  to-day  he  is  praying  God  that 
I  may  come  in  time.  Father  Almighty,  hear  and 
answer  his  prayer;  and  grant  thy  servant  wis- 
dom and  strength  to  render  some  service  this  day 
somewhere  to  thy  children." 

The  miller  reverently  said  "Amen."  The  priest 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  blessed  him  in 
parting,  and  then  was  gone. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


That  is  a  curious  experience  in  which  a  man  oi 
fifty-five  enters  on  an  enterprise  such  as  he  has 
not  tested  for  thirty  years.  He  feels  as  young  as 
ever,  if  he  be  a  man  of  pure  life.  The  spirit  of 
man  never  grows  old  ;  it  seems,  indeed,  to  grow 
young,  when  it  becomes  as  a  little  child  every 
day.  But  John  of  Lugio  knew  that,  when  he  was 
five-and-twenty,  he  would  not  have  put  his  foot 
into  the  stirrup  to  spring  into  the  saddle.  He 
knew  that  he  would  not  for  such  a  day's  adven- 
ture have  girt  on  the  surcoat  he  was  wearing. 
"  It  is  as  well,"  he  said  to  the  spirited  horse  who 
bore  him,  "  it  is  as  well  that  you  are  not  forty 
years  older  than  the  gray  stallion  who  bore  me 
the  last  day  I  ever  saw  the  great  Bernard."  And 
fhe  memory  of  that  day  of  his  youth,  and  of  its 
contrast  with  to-day,  pleased  him  and  engaged 
him  for  more  than  one  mile.  And  any  leader  of 
men  who  should  have  watched  his  skill  in  hand- 
ling his  horse,  and  making  the  most  of  every 
advantage  in  the  way,  would  have  chosen  the 
white-haired  priest  as  he  w^uld  hardly  have 
chosen  any  younger  man  for  service  like  this 
which  engaged  him.    As  physical  stiength  de- 


112 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


clines,  —  and  it  does  decline  after  the  physical 
man  is  forty-five  years  old,  —  still  experience, 
tact,  habit  of  hand  and  eye,  are  all  improving  in 
a  man  well-governed  and  self-poised.  And  John 
of  Lugio  had  not  yet  reached  that  age  when  the 
declining  curve  of  physical  strength  crosses  the 
ascending  curve  of  experience  and  skill.  There 
was  not  among  all  the  crusaders  who  at  that 
moment  were  trying  a  winter  in  Palestine,  or  on 
the  way  thither,  one  knight  or  squire  more  fit  for 
hardy,  active  service  than  was  he. 

An  hour's  quick  riding  brought  him  to  St. 
Rambert,  where  the  Brevon,  scarcely  more  than 
a  brook,  joins  the  larger  stream  called  the  Alba- 
rine.  It  was  even  then  a  quaint  old  town,  which 
is  just  what  the  traveller  would  call  it  now.  Its 
name  is  a  corruption  of  that  of  St.  Raynebert,  a 
son  of  the  Duke  Radbert,  a  martyr  of  five  centu- 
ries before  John  of  Lugio's  time  and  day.  Before 
his  time  there  had  been  some  worship  of  Jupiter 
on  the  hills  above,  and  the  name  of  the  old  god 
lingered  in  the  title  "  Joux,"  which  hung  even  to 
the  saint's  name.  St.  Rambert  de  Joux  was  the 
name  by  which  everybody  knew  the  village.  The 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


1 1  x 


brook  plunges  and  rages  in  a  series  of  cascades 
down  a  narrow  valley,  and  the  rider  took  a  path- 
way down,  which  seemed  wholly  familiar  to  him, 
which  led  him  under  the  walls  of  the  Benedictine 
abbey.  As  he  passed  the  gate,  two  of  the  breth- 
ren, in  the  costume  of  the  order,  came  out  after 
their  noonday  refection,  and  in  the  narrow  path- 
way could  not  but  look  upon  the  rider's  face, 
as  he  on  them.  They  recognized  him  in  an 
instant. 

"  W  hither  so  fast,  Brother  John  ? 99  This  was 
their  salutation. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  draw  bridle.  And 
the  first  welcome  of  the  two,  impelled  perhaps  by 
the  very  suddenness  of  their  meeting,  was  so  cor- 
dial, that  one  must  have  been  more  cynical  by  fat 
than  John  of  Lugio  not  to  respond  with  warmth 
and  kindness.  "  My  brother  Stephen,  my  brother 
Hugh,  are  you  two  here?  I  was  thinking  of  the 
brethren,  but  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  so 
near.  Father  Ambrose  does  not  send  to  me  to 
tell  me  the  names  of  the  new  arrivals. " 

"  Father  Ambrose  will  never  send  you  the 
names  of  new  arrivals  more.    He  lies  behind 

8 


H4 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


the  chapel  yonder,  and  we  sha/1  lay  his  body  in 
the  grave  to-morrow."  This  was  the  immediate 
answer ;  and  then  there  was  an  instant's  pause, 
as  they  all  recognized  the  awkwardness  of  their 
position. 

John  of  Lugio  was  excommunicate.  Whether 
they  might  speak  to  him  in  friendship  was  almost 
a  question.  That  they  ought  in  strictness  to  de- 
nounce him,  and  report  to  their  superiors  his 
presence  in  a  town  from  which  he  had  been 
formally  banished,  —  of  this  there  could  be  no 
question.  But  the  two  monks  were  men  and  were 
Christians  before  they  were  monks,  and  with  Jean 
both  of  them  were  united  by  old  ties.  "  Will  you 
rest  your  horse,  —  will  you  rest  yourself  ? "  said 
Stephen,  bravely.  "  I  will  take  him  myself  into 
the  stable,  and  Hugh  will  be  only  too  glad  to  find 
you  a  cold  dinner  in  the  refectory.  Your  horse 
has  travelled  far ;  he  will  not  be  the  worse  for 
grooming. " 

"  He  must  travel  farther  before  he  is  groomed. 
—  and  I.  But  I  shall  travel  the  lighter,  Stephen, 
for  the  kind  words  you  speak  ;  and  you  will  sleep 
fbe  easier  that  you  have  spoken  them.    Do  you, 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


too,  do  your  work,  and  I  will  do  mine  \  and  we 
will  let  nothing  that  men  can  do  or  can  say  pari 
us.  No,  —  I  must  not  stop.  I  would  not  put  you 
two  in  danger  by  accepting  your  service,  if  I  could , 
but  I  must  do  what  few  men  do  in  these  degene- 
rate days,  and  cross  the  long  bridge  at  Lyons 
before  the  sun  goes  down,  Take  the  blessings  of 
a  '  Poor  Man  of  Lyons/  of  a  heretic,  excommuni- 
cate !    God  bless  you,  my  brother,  —  and  you  !  " 

"  God  bless  you,  John  ;  God  bless  you !  "  said 
the  two,  as  they  made  way  for  his  horse. 

"  It  is  for  the  love  of  Christ  that  I  am  speeding,,, 
said  he,  tenderly  \  "  pray  in  your  prayers  to-day 
for  the  Father's  blessing  on  me  in  his  name." 

And  they  parted.  If  the  monks  were  startled 
by  the  adventure,  and  they  were,  none  the  less 
was  John  of  Lugio  startled  by  it.  He  was  not 
afraid  of  them.  He  had  seen  too  clearly  that  the 
voice  of  the  Holy  Spirit  had  spoken  to  both  of 
them  more  loudly  than  any  rule  or  interdict.  He 
knew  that  both  of  them  would  confess  the  sin  of 
concealing  his  presence  ;  that  both  of  them  would 
loyally  do  the  penances  appointed.  He  knew  as 
well  that  neither  of  them  would  betray  him,  whila 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


betrayal  would  endanger  him ;  and  that  neither  ol 
them,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  would  ever  be  sorry 
for  the  silent  service  rendered  to  him  that  day. 

The  adventure  set  him  upon  other  thought  than 
sympathy  with  them.  Had  he  gratified  the  wishes 
and  passion  of  his  youth,  his  home  would  have 
been  at  this  hour  within  those  walls.  He  would 
have  been  the  senior  of  every  man,  except  Stephen, 
in  that  fraternity.  He  knew  them  all,  —  yes,  and 
he  knew  perfectly  well  that  not  one  of  them  af- 
fected to  be  his  equal  in  the  scholarship  and  learn 
ing  to  which  the  abbey  was  devoted.  Humanly 
speaking,  on  the  Abbot  Ambrose's  death,  he  him- 
self, John  of  Lugio,  would  have  become  his  suc- 
cessor, the  lord  of  this  lovely  estate,  the  director 
in  these  noble  ministries,  the  first  student  in  these 
happy  cloisters,  if  —  if  he  had  only  obeyed  the 
wish  of  his  heart  thirty  years  ago,  and  given  him- 
self here  to  student  life  ! 

But  instead  of  that,  Jean  of  Lugio  had  given 
himself  to  the  immediate  help  of  the  "  Poor  Men  ol 
Lyons."  He  had  fcmrned  away  from  the  fascina- 
tion of  study,  to  make  the  weavers  and  dyers  and 
boatmen  of  Lyons  purer  men  and  happier  ;  to 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


bring  comfort  and  life  into  their  homes,  and  to 
make  simpler  their  children's  path  to  heaven.  He 
had  done  this  with  his  eyes  open.  He  had  turned 
away  from  the  Abbey  of  Cornillon,  and  had  made 
himself  God's  minister  in  the  hovels  of  Lyons. 
And  of  this  the  reward  was,  that  this  day  he  haz- 
arded his  life  by  going  back  to  Lyons  to  render 
one  service  more,  while  he  might  have  been  wait- 
ing, as  the  senior  in  the  fraternity,  within  those 
happy  abbey  walls,  to  render  fit  service  at  the 
Abbot  Ambrose's  grave. 

If  —  and  the  picture  of  half  a  life  came  in  upou 
that  if.  But  to  John  of  Lugio  that  picture  brought 
no  regrets.  He  had  chosen  as  his  God  directed 
him.  In  calmness  he  had  foreseen  what  in  the 
heat  of  conflict  he  had  seen,  and  what  he  now 
looked  back  upon.  Foreseeing,  —  seeing  or  look- 
ing back,  —  it  was  the  picture  of  duty  bravely 
done.  And  Father  Jean  passed  down  from  under 
the  walls  of  the  abbey  without  a  sigh  or  a  tear. 

The  road  still  follows  the  stream,  and  the  valley 
is  by  no  means  straight.  Its  curves  are  pictu- 
resque enough,  but  they  do  not  lead  a  travellei 
very  directly.    He  passed  along  the  face  of  Moun' 


u8 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


Charvet,  left  the  village  of  Serrieres  on  his  left, 
and  came,  before  he  dared  to  hope,  to  the  new 
Castle  of  Montferrand.  By  a  sudden  determina- 
tion he  rode  abruptly  to  the  castle  gate  ;  and,  find- 
ing no  warden,  called  loudly  to  a  little  boy  whom 
he  saw  within,  and  bade  him  summon  either  a 
porter  or  some  officer  of  the  baron's  household. 

The  truth  was,  that  as  he  tried  the  Baron  of 
Meximieux's  noble  gray  stallion  on  one  and  an- 
other pace  in  descending  the  steep  slopes  from  St. 
Rambert,  it  became  painfully  clear  that  the  horse 
had  done  his  work  for  that  day.  The  miller  had 
pressed  him,  perhaps,  harder  than  he  meant  or 
knew ;  and,  whatever  care  he  had  taken,  the  good 
horse  had  made  near  ten  leagues,  with  only  the 
hour's  rest  which  had  been  given  him  at  the  cabin 
of  Mark  of  Seyssel.  If  the  priest  were  to  succeed 
in  the  task  assigned  to  him,  he  must  make  better 
speed  than  in  the  last  hour  he  had  made.  This 
certainty  determined  his  bold  appeal  at  the  castle. 

A  summons  so  hearty  roused  all  its  inmates, 
and  they  appeared  at  one  or  another  door  or  cor- 
ridor with  that  curiosity  which  in  all  times  drawa 
out  the  inhabitants  of  a  lonely  country  house, 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


119 


when  there  is  chance  to  look  upon  some  unex- 
pected face,  no  matter  of  what  human  being.  The 
Baron  of  Montferrand  himself  made  his  appear- 
ance. He  was  not  dressed  as  if  for  King  Philip's 
court,  or  for  the  Emperor's.  In  truth,  he  had 
spent  the  morning  in  the  occupation — not  very 
lordly,  as  we  count  lords,  but  perfectly  baronial  in 
the  customs  of  his  time  —  of  directing  the  ser- 
vants, who  flayed  and  cut  to  pieces  a  fat  boar  which 
they  had  brought  in  at  the  end  of  yesterday's  hunt- 
ing. From  this  occupation,  in  which  he  had  him- 
self personally  assisted,  the  Baron  had  been  called 
to  dinner ;  and  he  had  dined  without  the  slightest 
thought  of  revising  or  improving  his  toilet.  Before 
dinner  was  fairly  over,  he  had  fallen  asleep  in  the 
chair,  not  uncomfortable,  in  which  he  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  table.  He  was  roused  from  his  nap 
by  the  hurrying  of  one  and  another  servant,  as  ic 
was  announced  that  a  stranger  was  at  the  gate. 
A  stranger  in  those  days  of  December  was  not  a 
frequent  intruder. 

John  of  Lugio  was  already  talking  with  por- 
ter and  seneschal.  He  was  not  displeased  to 
see  the  Baron  approach  him.    The  old  man  came 


120 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


bareheaded,  and  without  any  outer  garment  be 
yond  what  he  had  worn  at  table  to  protect  him 
from  the  cold.  The  traveller  knew  him  on  the 
instant ;  had  seen  him  more  than  once  in  one  01 
another  journey  up  or  down  this  valley,  and,  in- 
deed, in  closer  intimacies,  in  the  ministry  of  more 
than  thirty  years.  But  the  Baron,  not  caring  a 
great  deal  for  priests,  and  not  having  a  great  deal 
to  do  with  them,  did  not  for  an  instant  suspect 
that  the  hardy  rider  with  whom  he  had  to  do  wore 
a  tonsure,  or  had  more  than  once  lifted  the  con- 
secrated chalice  before  him  at  the  mass.  He 
saluted  the  stranger  somewhat  abruptly,  but  still 
courteously,  and  invited  him  to  dismount  and  rest 
himself. 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  courtesy,  my  lord,"  was 
the  reply.  *'  But  my  errand  requires  haste,  as  you 
will  see.  I  am  bidden  to  Lyons  this  very  night, 
and  that  on  service  which  brooks  no  delay.  I 
had  hoped  that  this  horse,  which  is  from  the  sta- 
bles at:  Meximieux,  would  take  me  thither,  and 
there  a  fresh  beast  waits  me ;  but  I  have  already 
taken  from  him  the  best  that  he  can  give,  and  he 
will  make  slow  work  of  the  long  reach  that  is  lefl 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


121 


for  me.  This  is  why  I  have  stopped  here  :  to  ask< 
not  your  hospitality,  but  your  help.  If  I  may 
leave  this  good  horse,  and  if  you  have  another 
which  will  take  me  down  the  valley,  you  shall  have 
my  hearty  thanks,  and  the  blessings  of  the  home 
where  they  need  me." 

"  You  tell  your  story  frankly,"  said  the  Baron  } 
and  with  a  stiff  oath  he  added,  "if  I  gave  horses 
to  every  vagabond  from  the  troop  of  Meximieux,  I 
should  have  few  horses  left  to  give."  Without 
farewell  or  apology,  he  turned  to  go  back  to  his 
fining-hall 

"  Pardon  me,  my  lord,"  persisted  Father  John, 
without  the  slightest  passion  or  haste  in  his  voice. 
"I  am  no  man  of  the  Baron  of  Meximieux.  I 
am  no  man's  man.  I  am  sent  for  on  a  work  of 
mercy,  because  one  Jean  Waldo  thinks  that  I  can 
save  his  child's  life.  If  I  am  to  serve  her,  I  must 
be  in  Lyons  to-night.  If  I  am  there,  the  service 
will  be  yours,  not  mine." 

"  If  I  should  give  horses  to  every  beggar  who 
chooses  to  ride  out  of  Lyons,  I  should  have  no 
horses  to  give,"  said  the  Baron.  Like  many  men 
of  little  invention  he  had  been  so  much  pleased 


122 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


by  the  cadence  of  his  first  retort,  that  he  could 
not  but  try  its  force  again.  But  the  repetition  of 
the  insult  gave  the  Father  courage.  A  man  truly 
resolved  does  not  say  the  same  thing  twice.  Most 
likely  he  does  not  speak  twice  at  all. 

"  I  am  no  beggar  from  Lyons,  or  no  servant  of 
the  Lyons  merchant.  Lyons  does  not  love  me, 
nor  is  there  any  reason  but  what  I  tell  why  I 
should  care  to  enter  Lyons.  But  if  you  had  a 
daughter  dying,  my  Lord  Baron,  and  Jean  Waldc 
could  send  her  a  physician,  you  would  be  glad  to 
have  him  send,  though  you  never  saw  his  face,  and 
though  you  do  not  love  his  craft  or  his  city.  Can 
you  not  do  as  you  would  be  done  by  ? " 

He  had  perhaps  gained  his  point,  though  the 
Baron,  with  a  stupid  notion  that  he  must  maintain 
his  dignity  in  the  presence  of  his  own  servants, 
tried  to  do  so  by  a  certain  delay,  which  would 
have  exasperated  a  person  of  less  experience  and 
less  balance  than  Father  John. 

"  How  am  I  to  know,"  said  the  wavering  Mont- 
ferrand,  "  that  you  are  the  leech  you  say  you  are  ? 
What  is  your  token  ?  If  I  am  to  give  a  horse  to 
every  quack  who  rides  between  Amber ieux  and 


IN  HIS  NAME.  123 

St.  Rambert,  I  should  have  no  horses  left  to 
give." 

"  I  have  no  token,  my  lord.  A  man  who  has 
spoken  truth  for  forty  years,  going  up  and  down 
this  \  alley,  needs  no  token  that  he  does  not  lie.' 
He  took  off  his  hat  as  he  spoke,  and  showed  the 
tonsure.  "  You  have  received  Christ's  body  from 
this  hand,  my  lord.  You  know  that  these  lips 
will  not  speak  falsely  to  you."  And  then,  watch 
ing  his  man  carefully,  and  noticing  a  change  come 
on  his  face,  at  the  mention  of  the  Saviour,  he  added, 
as  if  by  intention,  and  almost  in  a  whisper :  "  It  is 
for  the  love  of  Christ  that  I  ask  the  best  horse  in 
your  stables." 

"  Saddle  Chilperic !  Saddle  Chilperic !  Why  are 
you  clowns  gaping  and  sneezing  there?  Saddle 
Chilperic !  I  say,  and  take  this  gentleman's  good 
horse  where  he  can  be  cared  for.  Take  my  hand, 
Father,  take  my  hand.  Gently  —  so  —  you  are 
stiff  from  riding.  Come  into  the  hall  and  let  the 
baroness  have  a  word  with  you  ?  Chilperic  will 
not  be  ready  for  a  minute,  and  you  will  at  least 
drink  a  glass  of  wine  !  If  it  only  shows  that  you 
do  not  bear  malice,  you  will  drink  a  glass  of  wine/ 


124 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


We  are  rough  fellows,  we  hill  barons,  and  we 
speak  when  we  do  not  think,  Father.  But,  indeed, 
indeed,  I  would  have  been  more  ready  had  you 
summoned  me 

In  His  Name." 

And  he  crossed  himself  as  he  passed  the  threshold. 
In  those  surroundings,  in  the  company  in  which 
they  were,  the  Baron  did  not  dare  question  the 
priest  further,  nor  explain  how  he  had  been  in- 
itiated into  the  secret  fraternity  by  the  password 
of  which  he  had  been  adjured.  Nor  did  he  care 
to  say  much  to  explain  the  inconsistency  of  his 
brutal  refusal  of  one  moment,  when  it  was  com 
pared  with  his  ready  tenderness  at  the  next.  Per- 
haps it  is  best  for  all  of  us  that  we  do  not  have  to 
reconcile  such  inconsistencies  as  often  as  we  are 
conscious  of  them.  Once  more  he  pressed  the 
priest  to  refresh  himself  with  wine,  and  he  called 
loudly  on  his  wife  to  join  in  his  rough  welcome  as 
he  entered  the  hall. 

The  little  woman  came  forward,  bending  some- 
what with  rheumatism  more  than  age,  but  with 
freshness  and  quickness,  and  with  all  the  courtesy 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


125 


and  dignity  of  noble  breeding.  Whether  the 
grooms  and  other  servants,  and  the  idlers  in  the 
court-yard,  had  guessed  the  secret  of  the  Barons 
sudden  change  of  purpose,  or  had  failed  to  guess 
it,  she,  who  had  seen  the  whole  from  her  open 
casement,  understood  it  all  in  a  flash.  Now  that 
Father  John  entered  the  room,  she  recognized  him 
in  an  instant,  as  the  Baron  had  not  done.  But 
she  knew  very  well  that  his  liberty,  and  possibly 
even  his  life,  depended  on  his  passing  on  his 
errand  unrecognized  by  her  servants  ;  and  her  per- 
fect manner,  therefore,  was  exactly  what  it  would 
have  been  had  he  been  any  other  person  —  a 
friend  of  the  Lyonese  weaver  —  summoned  in  hot 
haste  to  his  daughter's  bedside.  She  dropped  her 
courtesy,  advanced  to  take  the  hat  of  the  traveller, 
begged  him  to  sit  at  her  husband's  side  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  and  with  her  own  hand  poured 
the  wine  from  the  coarse  jug  which  held  it  into 
the  highly  wrought  cup  which  the  bustling  Baron 
had  found  for  his  guest  "I  heard  something 
said  of  a  lady  —  a  girl  —  a  sick  girl.  Is  there 
nothing  I  can  send  from  our  stores  ?  I  could  in 
a  moment  put  up  maidenwort,  or  rosemary,  or  Si, 


126 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


Mary's  herb,  if  your  Reverence  will  only  tako 
them." 

But  the  Father  thanked  her,  and  declined.  His 
fi  iends  in  Lyons  must  have  at  their  command  such 
drugs  as  could  be  of  service,  if  any  thing  can  be 
it  service  indeed. 

"Ah,  sir,"  she  said,  "if  only  you  will  render 
service  to  them,  like  the  blessing  you  once  gave 
to  me!" 

"  To  you ! "  and  he  looked  amazed  into  those 
sharp,  little  black  eyes,  which  twinkled  under  eye- 
Drows  snow  white  with  the  same  liveliness  as  if 
she  were  still  sixteen  years  old. 

"  To  me ! "  she  said  again ;  and  as  he  looked 
with  undisguised  ignorance  of  her  meaning,  it 
was  impossible  that  she  should  not  smile,  and 
she  hastily  wiped  away  from  the  little  eyes  the 
tears  that  at  first  filled  them.  "Ah,  you  do  not 
remember,  my  Father.  It  is  a  shame  for  a  knight 
to  forget  a  lady  whose  colors  he  has  worn,  —  may 
a  priest  forget  a  lady  whom  he  has  served  in  the 
last  extremity?"  And  she  fairly  laughed  at  his 
perplexity. 

"  Ah,  madame  !  you  must  pardon  what  time 


IN  HIS  AAMk. 


12J 


does,  and  exile.  Whoever  it  is,  I  can  see  tha» 
you  carry  the  secret  of  perpetual  youth,  but  I  los* 
that  long  ago.  It  is  very  long  since  I  was  in  the 
Castle  of  Montferrand,  long  before  you  were  ever 
here,  my  lady." 

"  Chilperic  will  be  ready  before  you  guess  me 
out/'  said  she  ;  "  and,  as  your  errand  presses,  I 
will  tell  you,  if  you  will  promise,  when  it  is  over, 
to  stay  as  many  weeks  in  the  castle  as  you  have 
now  spent  minutes  here.  It  is  fair  to  remind  you 
of  the  day  when  a  girl  with  a  scarlet  cape,  and  a 
girl  with  a  blue  cape,  and  a  girl  with  no  cape  at 
all,  went  sailing  down  the  river  with  two  young 
squires  and  with  a  very  foolish  page,  from  the 
home  of  the  Barons  of  Braine.  And  have  you 
forgotten  "  — 

"  Alix  !  Alix  de  Braine  !  It  is  impossible  that 
I  should  have  forgotten  !  But  that  you  are  here 
is  as  strange  as  that  I  am  here.  Where  the  foui 
others  are,  perhaps  you  know  !  " 

"  Chilperic  is  ready,  my  lord."  This  was  the 
interruption  of  the  groom  at  the  door. 

"  Chilj  oeric  is  ready,  and  life  and  death  cornpeJ 
me  to  go  on.    Dear  Lady  Alix,  you  a&k  me  to  be 


128 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


your  guest.  You  do  not  know,  then,  that  if  I  had 
drunk  from  this  cup  of  wine,  you  would  share  my 
excommunication  ;  that  if  I  slept  under  this  roof, 
you  could  never  enter  church  again ;  no,  not  to 
be  borne  there  on  your  bier  ! " 

"  Did  I  not  know  it?  "  whispered  the  brave  little 
woman.  "Did  I  not  know  that  you  were  journey- 
ing '  for  the  love  of  Christ,'  and  do  not  my  hus- 
band and  I  beg  you  to  stay  with  us  as  his  guest 
and  ours  ?  Our  request  is  made,  and  our  welcome 
will  be  given 

In  His  Name." 
And  they  parted. 

The  baron  had  already  left  the  hall.  When 
the  priest  stepped  into  the  court-yard,  and  as  he 
put  his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  he  saw  to  his  surprise 
that  his  host  had  already  mounted  another  horse, 
and  was  waiting  for  him,  himself  ready  equipped 
for  a  winter's  expedition.  A  heavy  fox-skin  jacket 
had  been  thrown  over  the  dress,  none  too  light, 
which  he  wore  before,  and  he  had  in  the  moment 
of  his  absence  drawn  on  riding-boots  also 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


129 


The  Father  acknowledged  the  courtesy,  but 
expressed  his  unwillingness  to  give  to  his  host 
such  trouble.  He  was  glad  of  his  company,  he 
said,  but  really  he  needed  no  protection. 

"  Protection  !  I  think  not,  while  you  are  on 
or  are  near  the  territory  of  Montf errand."  This 
was  the  Baron's  reply,  with  the  addition  of  one 
or  two  rough  oaths,  untranslatable  either  into  our 
language  or  into  the  habit  of  this  page,  but  such 
as,  it  must  be  confessed,  shot  like  a  sort  of  lurid 
thrtad  into  the  web-work  of  all  the  poor  man's 
conversation.  "  I  should  not  like  to  see  poacher 
or  peasant  who  would  say  a  rough  word  to  any 
man  whom  he  saw  riding  on  one  of  my  horses. 
No,  my  Father,  it  is  not  to  protect  you  that  I  ride, 
but  to  talk  with  you.  We  hill  barons  are  rough 
fellows,  as  I  said,  but  we  are  not  the  clowns  or 
the  fools  that  the  gentry  of  the  Chapter  choose  to 
think  us.  Meximieux  here  has  tried  to  cheat  me 
about  the  fish,  and  has  sent  his  falcons  after  my 
herons  a  dozen  times,  so  that  I  have  not  spoken 
to  him  or  to  his  for  fifteen  years  before  he  went 
off  on  this  Holy  Land  tomfoolery,  —  I  beg  your 
Reverence's  pardon  for  calling  it  so.    But  I  will 

9 


130 


IN  HIS  NAMK. 


say  of  Meximieux  himself,  that  he  is  neither  clown 
nor  fool ;  and  if  I  were  to  have  to  strike  at  King 
Saladin  or  any  of  his  emirs,  I  had  rather  Mexi- 
mieux were  at  my  side  than  any  of  the  dandy- 
jacks  I  saw  the  day  the  bridge  went  down.  We 
are  rough  fellows,  I  say,"  —  and  here  he  tried  to 
pick  up  the  thread  which  he  had  dropped  a  long 
breath  before,  but  he  tried,  not  wholly  success- 
fully, —  "  we  are  rough  fellows,  I  say ;  but  when 
a  man  of  courage  and  of  heart  like  your  Reverence 
comes  to  see  us,  and  that  is  none  too  often,  we 
are  glad  to  learn  something  of  what  he  has  learned 
and  we  would  fain  answer  his  questions,  if  he  have 
any  to  put  to  us." 

"  But  I  must  say  to  you,  my  lord,  as  I  said  to 
the  Lady  Alix,  that  to  help  me  on  my  way  is  to  put 
yourself  under  the  ban.  I  was  recognized  within 
this  hour  by  two  of  the  monks  in  the  Abbey  of 
Cornillon  yonder,  old  and  intimate  friends  of 
mine.  Perhaps  they  will  not  denounce  me,  but 
the  first  fishermen  we  meet  may,  or  the  first  shep- 
herd's boy.  For  I  have  trudged  up  and  down  this 
valley  too  often  for  me  to  be  a  stranger  here.  It 
is  not  fair  that  I  should  expose  you,  for  your  com 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


13' 


tesy,  to  ihe  punishment  which  is  none  too  easy 
upon  me." 

"  Punishment  be  !  "  said  the  Baron,  with 

an  oath  again.  Nor  did  the  excellent  man  even 
condescend  to  the  modern  foolery  of  asking  the 
clergyman's  pardon  for  such  excesses,  —  "it  is 
no  great  punishment  to  a  hill  baron  to  tell  him 
that  he  shall  never  enter  a  church.  It  is  some 
little  while  since  I  have  troubled  them,  even  now. 
And  if  it  should  happen  that  this  old  carcass 
should  rot  on  the  hillside  where  it  happens  to  fall, 
why,  that  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  is  happen- 
ing this  very  winter  to  many  a  gallant  fellow  who 
went  on  their  fool's  errand  —  I  beg  your  pardon  — 
against  the  Saracen.  To  tell  the  truth,  sir,  I  want 
to  talk  about  this  very  business,  —  of  your  punish- 
ment, as  you  call  it,  and  of  what  I  and  other  good 
fellows  are  to  do,  who  hold  that  you  and  your 
friends  are  right,  and  that  the  soup-guzzling,  wine- 
tippling,  book-burning,  devil-helping  gowned  men 
down  in  the  city  yonder  are  all  wrong."  It  was 
with  a  good  deal  of  difficulty  that  he  worked 
through  this  long  explanation,  even  with  the  help 
which  his  swearing  seemed  to  give  him.  Bui 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


there  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  very  much  in 
earnest  in  making  it.  He  seemed  to  be  helped 
by  the  tremendous  pace  at  which  the  two  horses, 
who  had  been  caged  in  the  stables  for  'two  or 
three  days,  were  taking  them  over  a  stretch  of 
level  road. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  I  can  tell  you,"  said  the 
priest,  who  seemed  to  be  as  little  disturbed  as  the 
Baron  was  by  the  rapidity  of  their  pace,  and  rode 
as  if  he  had  been  born  on  horseback.  "  I  cannot 
tell  you  what  to  do,  because  I  hardly  know  what 
[  am  to  do  myself,  —  except  wait.  I  wait  till  the 
good  Lord  shall  open  brighter  days,  as  in  His  day 
He  will.  Meanwhile,  from  day  to  day,  I  do  what 
my  hand  finds  to  do,  '  for  the  love  of  Christ/  or 

In  His  Name." 

"All  very  fine  of  you,  my  Father,"  said  the 
other,  a  little  chastened  perhaps  by  his  temper- 
ance of  tone.  "  All  very  fine  of  you,  who  have 
something  to  do  'for  the  love  of  Christ.'  You  can 
go  hither  or  thither,  and  every  man  has,  as  my 
wife  Alix  there  had,  some  story  to  tell  of  the  cure 
you  have  wrought  or  the  comfort  you  have  given, 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


133 


But  that  is  nothing  to  me.  It  is  not  every  day 
that  I  have  a  chance  to  beard  the  damned  rascals 
in  their  own  hell-hole,  by  giving  a  horse  from  my 
stables  to  one  of  these  men  they  are  hunting.  I 
wish  to  God  it  were  !  "  And  the  Baron's  rage  rose 
so  that  he  became  unintelligible,  as  the  horses 
forged  along. 

When  the  priest  caught  his  drift  again,  he  was 
saying,  "  If  it  had  not  been  such  damned  non- 
sense, all  nursery  tales  and  chapman's  stuff  and 
priest's  gabble,  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  —  I 
would  have  left  the  whole  crew  of  them.  Thirty 
men  in  good  armor  can  I  put  on  horseback,  Sii 
Priest ;  and  though  they  should  not  be  all  as  well 
mounted  as  is  your  Reverence,  yet  not  one  of  the 
dogs  should  cross  a  beast  but  was  better  than 
those  which  that  hog  of  a  Meximieux  rode  and 
led  when  he  followed  the  Archbishop  to  the  Holy 
Land.  Enough  better,"  he  added,  with  a  chuckle, 
"  than  that  waddling  oil-sack  that  I  saw  the  Arch- 
bishop himself  ambling  out  of  Lyons  upon.  I  tell 
you  I  would  have  gone  to  these  wars  gladly,  if  I 
could  have  thought  there  were  fewer  archbishops 
in  the  armies,  and  more  men  with  heads  upon 


*34 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


their  shoulders.  But  I  told  Alix,  said  1,  thev  are 
all  fools  that  are  not  knaves,  and  all  knaves  that 
are  not  fools ;  and,  if  King  Saladin  eats  them  all, 
the  world  will  be  the  better  for  it.  No  matter  for 
them,  your  Reverence.  Now  the  Archbishop  is 
gone,  could  not  a  few  of  us, —  perhaps  Servette 
yonder,  Blon,  I  think,  and  very  likely  Montluel, 
no  matter  for  names,  —  suppose  we  put  two  hun- 
dred good  men  in  saddle,  and  take  down  as  many 
more  spearmen  with  tough  ash  lances.  Suppose 
we  raised  a  cross  of  our  own,  such  a  cross  as  this, 
your  Reverence,"  and  he  made  the  criss-cross 
sweep  up  and  down,  and  then  from  right  to  left, 
by  which  all  these  affiliated  men  and  women  de- 
noted the  Cross  of  Malta.  "  Suppose  we  rode  into 
Lyons  some  moonlight  evening,  shouting  that  we 
came  '  for  the  love  of  Christ/  do  you  not  think 
that  there  are  as  many  stout  weavers  and  dock- 
men  and  boatmen,  and  other  good  fellows  Jiere, 
who  would  turn  out 

In  His  Name?" 

Then  when  he  saw  that  the  priest  did  not 
answer,  he  added,  "  I  tell  you,  Father,  we  would 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


135 


send  their  seneschals  and  their  Viguiers  and  theii 
Couriers  a:xi  their  popinjay  men-at-arms  scatter- 
ing  in  no  time  ;  we  would  smoke  the  old  pot- 
bellies out  of  their  kitchens  and  refectories,  and 
we  would  bring  the  1  Poor  Men  of  Lyons '  home  to 
their  own  houses,  to  the  House  of  Bread  and  the 
House  of  God,  quite  as  quick  as  they  were  driven 
out."  All  this,  with  a  scattered  fire  of  wild  oaths, 
which  added  to  the  droll  incongruity  of  what  the 
good  fellow  was  saying. 

If  John  of  Lugio  had  been  a  mere  ecclesiastic, 
he  would  have  said,  "  Ah,  my  friend,  they  who 
take  the  sword  must  perish  with  the  sword." 
And  then  the  poor  Baron,  who  had  perhaps  never 
spoken  at  such  length  in  his  life  before,  would 
have  shrunk  back  into  his  shell,  cursed  himself 
tor  a  fool  and  his  companion  for  another,  and 
never  would  have  understood  why  an  offer  so 
promising  was  refused.  But  John  of  Lugio  was 
not  a  mere  ecclesiastic,  nor  was  he  any  other  sort 
of  fool.  He  was  a  man  of  God,  Indeed,  but  he 
showed  in  this  case,  as  in  a  thousand  others,  as  in 
his  whole  life  he  showed,  that  he  knew  how  to 
tell  God's  messages  tc  all  sorts  of  men.  "My 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


lord/'  said  he,  "perhaps  you  are  right  in  think- 
ing that  these  kings  and  barons  and  archbishops 
and  bishops,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  pilgrims  who 
have  gone  to  the  Holy  City,  will  never  get  there. 
Perhaps  you  are  right  in  thinking  that  if  they 
ride  down  fifty  thousand  Saracens  and  burn  the 
houses  of  fifty  thousand  more,  they  will  not  teach 
the  Saracens  any  very  good  lesson  of  God's  love 
or  of  God's  Son.  I  believe  you  are  right,  or  I 
would  have  gone  when  my  old  friend  the  Arch- 
bishop went.  But  suppose  we  rode  into  Lyons  in 
the  same  fashion  ;  suppose  we  drove  out  the  Chap- 
ter, as  the  Chapter  drove  us  out;  suppose  we 
stole  their  horses,  as  they  stole  ours,  —  why,  all  the 
world  would  have  a  right  to  say  worse  things  of 
the  '  Poor  Men  of  Lyons '  than  it  has  ever  said 
till  now.  No !  no  !  my  lord,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment  ;  "  leave  it  to  time  and  to  the  good  God 
above  there.  No  fear  that  this  Archbishop  will 
prosper  too  long,  or  this  Chapter;  and  for  me, 
what  more  can  I  ask  than  as  good  a  friend  as  I 
have  found  this  day  ?  And  for  you,  what  more 
can  you  ask  than  such  a  home  as  Montferrand, 
and  such  a  wife  as  the  Lady  Alix  ? " 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


137 


But  the  Baron  was  hardly  disposed  to  turn  off 
fclth  a  laugh  the  plan  which  seemed  to  him  so 
promising.  He  began  upon  it  again  \  he  even 
showed  to  his  friend  that  he  had  thought  it  out  in 
detail  He  knew  how  large  a  guard  was  here  and 
how  large  there  ;  how  many  of  the  best  men-at- 
arms  were  in  Syria  with  the  Archbishop  ;  and  how 
poor  were  the  equipments  of  those  who  were  left 
at  home.  "  In  old  times,"  he  said,  "  the  Count  of 
Forez  would  have  been  at  our  backs,  but  now, 
who  knows  but  he  would  strike  a  stout  blow  on 
our  side  ?  There  is  not  a  man  this  side  Marseilles 
who  would  be  more  glad  than  he  to  see  these 
black-bellied  hornets  smoked  out  of  their  hives." 

The  Father  listened  as  courteously  as  before, 
but  as  firmly.  He  seemed  to  think  that  a  little 
authority  might  well  be  exerted  now,  and  he  said 
simply :  "  My  lord,  I  warn  you  that  you  are 
thinking  of  what  you  must  not  think  of.  If  what 
you  propose  were  the  right  thing  to  do,  you  would 
have  been  warned  of  it  before  now  by  those  in 
authority.  Till  you  are,  and  till  I  am,  we  must 
let  monks,  priests,  and  bishops  alone." 

And  Montferrand  supposed  —  perhaps  he  sup 


1 38  IN  HIS  NAME. 

posed  rightly  —  that  somewhere  the  "  Poor  Men  of 
Lyons  "  had  a  council  and  a  master,  wiser  than  he 
was,  who  would  some  day  give  him  a  signal  when 
he  might  gallop  on  this  road  on  the  back  of  Chil- 
peric,  with  every  man  whom  he  could  put  in  the 
saddle,  ready  for  a  raid  into  Lyons.  The  Baion 
was  not  yet  trained  enough  in  trusting  Providence 
to  know  that  the  only  authority  to  which  John  of 
Lugio  would  ever  defer,  was  an  authority  far  above 
chapter,  archbishop,  king,  or  pope. 

He  turned  the  subject,  therefore,  a  little  un- 
easily, to  the  eternal  question  of  the  crusade.  Did 
his  Reverence  think  the  troopers  would  soon  be 
home  again  ?  and  did  he  think  they  would  find  the 
sword  of  Saladin  so  weak  ?  and  all  the  other  ques- 
tions of  the  home  gossip  of  the  day.  Meanwhile, 
on  all  the  road  which  did  not  absolutely  forbid 
speed,  the  two  horses  flew  along,  much  as  Barbe- 
Noire  had  flown  that  morning,  and  with  no  such 
fatal  issue.  The  ride  was  a  short  one,  indeed,  be 
fore  they  entered  the  court-yard  of  the  Castle  of 
Meximieux.  Here  was  the  horse  of  Gualtier  of  the 
Mill,  saddled,  bridled,  and  waiting  for  his  rider. 

"  Sixteen  years  since  I  saw  the  inside  of  this 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


139 


court !  M  said  Montferrand,  as  he  swung  himself 
off  his  horse,  and  as  he  wiped  his  forehead.  "  The 
tall  tree  yonder  has  been  planted  since  then.  As 
I  remember  the  court,  my  man,  there  was  not  i 
green  twig  in  it." 

The  servant  bowed,  and  said  that  the  trees 
which  the  Baron  saw  had  all  been  there  when  he 
came  into  the  stable  service,  but,  as  the  Baron  saw. 
they  were  not  very  old. 

"  Sixteen  years !  "  said  the  rugged  old  chief 
again.  "  It  was  fifteen  years  ago  at  Michaelmas 
that  I  asked  Meximieux  if  he  would  make  the  fish 
good  to  me,  and  he  swore  he  would  do  no  such 
thing.  And  I  have  not  spoken  to  him  from  that 
clay  to  this.  And  now  he  is  lying  under  some  fig- 
tree  yonder,  and  I  am  standing  in  his  castle 
court.  Your  Reverence,  I  should  have  said  this 
morning  that  all  the  devils  in  hell  could  not  bring 
me  into  the  shadow  of  Meximieux's  wralls.  And 
see  what  you  have  done." 

"  Ah,  my  lord,"  said  the  other,  who  had  already 
mounted,  "  a  messenger  from  heaven,  though  he 
be  a  very  humble  one,  can  do  a  great  deal  that 
the  devils  h  hell  cannot  do.    And  now,  my  lord 


140  IN  HIS  NAME. 

good-ty.  Give  a  poor  priest's  best  salutations  to 
the  Lady  Alix.  And,  my  lord,  when  Meximieux 
comes  home,  win  a  greater  victory  than  he  has 
done.  Ask  him  if,  for  the  love  of  Christ,  he  will 
not  make  it  right  about  the  fish,  and  see  what  i 
pilgrim  like  him  will  answer,  In  His  Name." 

He  gave  the  Baron  his  hand,  and  was  gone. 
"  As  good  a  horseman,"  said  the  old  man,  "  as 
ever  served  under  King  Philip.  And  I  wonder 
how  many  of  them  all  are  doing  as  good  service 
as  he  is  this  day  !  " 

Gualtier  of  the  Mill  had  not  exaggerated  the 
worth  of  the  horse  which  the  priest  mounted,  and 
the  horse  had  never  had  a  better  rider.  From 
Meximieux  to  Lyons,  the  road  was  and  is  more 
than  seven  leagues  ;  but  the  rider  knew  that  it  was 
by  far  the  easier  part  of  the  way,  and,  thank? 
to  Chilperic  and  the  Baron,  he  had  left  full  half 
the  time  allotted  for  his  journey.  He  had  the 
hope,  also,  which  proved  well  founded,  that  he 
might  not  have  to  rely  on  the  miller's  horse  alone, 
but  that  he  might  find  at  Miribel,  or  some  other 
village  on  the  road,  a  fresh  horse  sent  out  to  meet 
him  by  Jean  Waldo. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


141 


In  this  hope,  he  rode  faster  than  he  would  have 
dared  to  do.  were  he  obliged  to  use  one  horse  for 
the  whole  journey.  And  at  a  rapid  rate,  indeed, 
and  without  companionship  or  adventure,  he  came 
lo  the  hamlet  which  the  miller  had  left  that  morn- 
ing, where  poor  Prinhac's  enterprise  had  come  to 
a  conclusion  so  untimely.  The  horse  neighed  his 
recognition  of  some  of  his  companions,  as  they 
entered  the  wretched  hamlet,  and,  in  a  moment 
more,  the  Father  saw  Prinhac  himself,  evidently 
waiting  for  him,  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  of  the 
miller's  garden. 

The  weaver  stepped  forward  into  the  roadwa) 
as  John  of  Lugio  approached,  and,  with  his  little 
willow  switch,  made  in  the  air  the  mystic  sign. 
The  priest  drew  bridle,  and  the  horse  evidently 
knew  that  he  was  at  home.  Prinhac  and  the 
priest  had  never  met  before.  The  weaver  eagerly 
asked  the  other  if  he  were  the  physician  so  much 
desired,  and  thanked  God  as  eagerly  when  he  knew 
that,  so  far,  his  mission  had  not  been  in  vain.  "  I 
would  break  mv  collar-bone  a  dozen  times,  if  I 
could  save  my  young  mistress  so  easily.  And 
tlx  re  is  not  another  boy  on  the  looms  or  in  the 


142 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


shops  but  would  say  the  same  thing."  He  told 
the  priest  hastily  that  he  knew  little  about  the  girl's 
disaster.  He  described  to  him  his  own  route  and 
progress,  and  the  miserable  accident  by  which  he 
had  been  delayed.  He  added,  "  Nothing  was  said 
about  fresh  horses,  but  I  have  been  watching  for 
them  all  day.  You  ought  to  meet  some  one  at 
Miribel,  or,  at  the  worst,  when  you  cross  the  river 
the  first  time." 

The  priest  asked  him  what  he  could  tell  him 
about  the  girl's  illness. 

"  Nothing  —  nothing.  I  know  she  was  as  well 
as  a  bird  at  sunset ;  I  saw  her  and  spoke  to  her  as 
she  came  singing  down  the  hill.  The  next  I  knew 
was,  that  my  master  woke  me  in  the  dead  of  the 
dark,  and  asked  me  'for  the  love  of  Christ '  to  bring 
to  you  this  message.  Forgive  me,  Father,  but  if 
he  had  asked  me  to  do  it  for  love  of  Mademoi 
selle  Felicie,  I  should  have  done  it  as  willingly." 

"  Hast  thou  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of 
these,  thou  hast  done  it  unto  me  !  "  Such  was  the 
naif  answrer  of  the  priest,  which,  perhaps,  the 
crippled  weaver  understood.  "  I  must  not  stay, 
my  good  fellow ;  if  I  am  to  be  of  any  use,  I  must 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


go.  I  shall  tell  the  child  how  faithful  a  messenger 
she  found  in  you.    God  bless  you,  and  farewell." 

The  weaver  was  right  in  supposing  that  a  relay 
would  await  the  physician  at  Miribel.  He  found 
there  another  of  Jean  Waldo's  men,  with  another 
of  his  horses.  The  man  did  not,  of  course,  recog- 
nize the  physician,  nor  the  horse  he  rode  ;  but  it 
was  not  difficult  for  the  priest,  who  was  on  the 
lookout  for  him,  to  persuade  him  that  it  was  for 
him  that  Cceur-Blanc  had  been  saddled.  The 
man  had  left  Lyons  two  hours  before  noon.  His 
tidings  of  his  young  mistress  were  scarcely  en 
couraging.  She  was  no  better,  he  was  sure  of  that. 
The  Florentine  doctor  had  not  left  her  all  the  day, 
nor  her  father  or  mother  ;  he  was  sure  of  that 
His  directions  were  simply  to  wait  for  the  priest 
at  Miribel,  and  to  bid  him  mount  Cceur-Blanc, 
while  he  was  to  bring  home  Barbe-Noire  as  soon 
as  might  be.  So  the  good  Father  rode  on  alone. 
The  child  was  alive.  So  far  was  well.  For  the 
rest,  he  had  carried  with  him  all  day  that  sinking 
of  heart  which  any  man  feels  when  he  is  called 
to  struggle  with  death,  only  because  all  others 
have  so  far  failed  in  that  very  encounter. 


144 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  TROUBADOUR. 

Freshly  mounted,  and  well  mounted,  too,  t*.»e 
tired  man  bade  the  groom  good-by,  and  enterea 
on  his  last  hour  with  that  comfortable  feeling 
which,  even  to  the  most  tired  man,  the  last  hour 
brings.  Alas  !  it  was  the  old  story,  Prinhac's  story 
of  the  morning.  He  was,  as  it  proved,  in  more 
danger  in  this  last  hour  than  he  had  been  through 
all  the  rest  of  the  day. 

He  was  pushing  over  the  meadows  of  the  valley 
at  a  sharp  trot,  when  he  met  a  rider  coming  out 
from  the  city,  on  a  sorry-looking  beast,  in  the 
rathei  jaunty  or  fantastic  costume  which  indicated 
that  he  was  one  of  the  trouveres,  or  troubadours. 
The  man  nodded  good-naturedly,  perhaps  a  little 
familiarly.  John  of  Lugio,  absorbed  in  the  old- 
time  memories  which  the  day  had  renewed,  ac- 
knowledged the  salutation  with  less  familiarity, 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


145 


but  with  a  sort  of  reserved  courtesy,  taking,  in- 
deed, but  little  real  notice  of  the  traveller  as  he 
did  so.  The  man  pushed  on  cheerfully,  but,  in  a 
moment,  stopped  his  horse,  turned,  and  scrutinized 
the  priest  with  care,  and  then  making  a  speaking- 
trumpet  of  both  hands,  hailed  him  with,  — 

"  Hoik  !  hoik  !  there  \  will  you  halt  a  minute  ? " 

Halting  was  not  in  John  of  Lugio's  schedule 
for  that  afternoon,  if  he  could  help  himself.  He 
heard  the  cry  distinctly,  but  knew  no  reason  why 
he  should  stop  at  the  demand  of  a  troubadour. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  would  not  seem  to  avoid 
the  other.  He  did  not  turn  for  an  instant,  there- 
fore ;  he  did  not  spur  his  horse  on  the  other  hand, 
but  he  let  him  hold  to  the  sharp,  rapid  trot  that 
he  was  pursuing. 

The  troubadour  saw  his  haste,  and  shouted 
only  with  the  more  eagerness, — 

"  Hoik !  hoik  !  there  j  halt !  halt !  " 

But  the  well-mounted  rider  swept  along. 

The  stranger  screamed  once  more,  but  saw 
that  the  other  halted  his  speed  not  by  a  second. 
He  was,  indeed,  out  of  any  fair  ear-shot  by  this 
time. 

1C 


146 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


The  troubadour  fairly  groaned.  He  looked 
anxiously  at  the  declining  sun,  and  resolved,  on 
the  instant,  to  go  in  pursuit  of  the  fugitive,  even 
with  the  wretched  brute  which  he  had  under  him, 
who  was  but  the  poorest  competitor  in  a  match 
with  Jean  Waldo's  powerful  Arab,  on  which  the 
priest  was  mounted. 

For  the  priest  himself,  he  did  not  once  turn 
round.  It  was  not  his  part  to  show  anxiety  }  and, 
indeed,  he  did  not  know  that  he  was  followed. 
But,  if  he  were  followed,  he  did  not  mean  to  be 
readily  overtaken. 

There  is  a  little  elevation  in  the  road  as  i; 
crosses  the  slope  of  a  spur  of  one  of  the  northern 
hills,  and  the  moment  that  John  of  Lugio  knew 
that  he  was  shielded  by  it  from  the  sight  of  any 
one  on  the  flat  ground  behind,  he  pressed  his 
horse  even  to  a  gallop,  and  flew  over  the  ground 
at  a  speed  which  almost  defied  pursuit.  Had  this 
rate  of  going  lasted,  he  would  soon  have  found 
himself  at  the  Rhone  again. 

But  no ;  he  had  to  draw  bridle  in  less  than  a 
mile,  that  his  unusual  rate  of  travel  might  not 
challenge  the  curiosity  of  the  loungers  in  a  little 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


'47 


hamlet  before  him  as  the  road  turned.  Two  01 
three  horses  were  tethered  on  the  outside  of  a 
wine-shop,  a  boy  seemed  to  be  watching  them, 
and  one  or  two  idlers  stood  by.  John  of  Lugio 
hoped  that  he  might  get  by  without  attracting 
attention. 

No  !  As  he  nodded  civilly  to  the  by-standers, 
two  men,  half  soldiers,  half  gens-d'armes,  if  these 
modern  words  explain  at  all  a  race  of  officers  now 
existing  no  longer,  stepped  out  from  the  tavern. 
They  were  in  the  livery  worn  by  the  servants  of 
police  of  the  Archbishop  and  Chapter  of  Lyons. 

"  Where's  your  haste,  my  tall  friend  ? "  said  the 
one  who  was  rather  the  more  tipsy  of  the  two. 
"  Where's  your  haste  to-day  ?  Stop  and  have 
something,  —  something  to  drink  with  Jean  Gra- 
vier  here.  His  wine  is  bad,  the  worst  wine  I  ever 
drank,  but  it  is  better  wine  than  none." 

The  priest's  business  at  this  moment  was  not 
to  preach,  nor  warn,  nor  convert  drunkards  from 
the  error  of  their  ways,  but  to  get  to  Lyons  before 
sunset.  He  showed  no  sign  of  annoyance,  but 
laughed  good-naturedly,  and  said,  — 

"Thank  you  kindly;  I  will  pay  the  scot,  if  (he 


148 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


rest  will  drink.  But  I  have  but  just  mounted  at 
Miribel  yonder,  and  I  must  be  in  Lyons  before 

the  sun  goes  down." 

"  Sun ! "  said  the  drunken  tipstaff,  "  sun  be 
hanged  !  The  sun  has  two  good  hours  yet  in  the 
sky,  and  with  that  horse  of  yours,  you  will  see 
the  guard  long  before  sunset.  Come  and  try 
Jean  Gravier's  red  wine." 

The  priest  would  not  show  uneasiness.  But 
again  he  declined,  proposing  that  a  stoup  of  wine 
should  be  brought  out,  that  all  the  company  might 
share,  judging,  not  unwisely,  that  he  should  do 
well  to  enlist  as  many  of  them  as  he  might  upon 
his  side.  At  this,  another  of  the  officers  came  out 
from  the  tavern.  Unfortunately,  for  the  priest's 
errand,  he  was  much  more  sober  than  his  com- 
panion. Unfortunately,  again,  he  was  no  foreign 
hireling,  as  the  others  were,  but  was  a  Lyonnais 
born.  The  moment  he  looked  upon  John  of 
lugio  he  recognized  him,  or  thought  he  did,  and 
he  addressed  him  in  a  mood  very  different  from 
(hat  of  his  noisy  companions.  The  man  looked 
jealously  at  Father  John,  as  men  of  his  craft  were 
and  are  apt  to  look  at  all  strangers.    He  did  nof 


IN  HIS  A  A  ME. 


'49 


drop  or  turn  his  eye  either;  after  the  first  glance 
he  surveyed  the  whole  figure  of  the  rider,  and  his 
horse  as  well. 

"  You  are  riding  one  of  Jean  Waldo's  horses/' 
he  said,  gruffly. 

"  I  am,"  said  the  priest ;  "  he  sent  it  out  to 
meet  me  by  one  of  his  grooms.  I  left  my  own 
horse  at  Miribel." 

"  You  are  a  friend  of  Jean  Waldo's,  then  ? 99 

"  I  am  a  friend  of  a  friend  of  his,"  said  the 
priest,  with  an  aspect  of  courage  and  frankness, 
"  and  I  am  eager  to  be  in  Lyons  at  to-morrow's 
festival  at  his  house.  That  is  why  I  cannot  tarry 
with  our  friends  here,  I  must  pay  my  scot  and 
begone." 

"  Not  quite  so  fast,"  said  the  officer ;  "  have 
you  any  pass  to  show,  if  you  are  asked  for  one  at 
the  bridge  ? " 

"  Pass,  —  no,"  said  the  priest,  laughing.  "  I 
had  a  pass  years  ago,  signed  by  the  Viguier,  but  it 
was  worn  out  long  since,  while  I  waited  for  some- 
body to  ask  me  for  it.  I  think  the  Viguier  will 
not  turn  out  any  of  Jean  Waldo's  friends.  What 
is  my  scot  ? "  he  said,  as  if  impatient,  to  the  t&veto 


150 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


keeper.  "  All  the  passes  in  the  world  will  no! 
serve  me  if  I  come  to  the  long  bridge  after  sun- 
down. And  I  should  be  glad  to  be  there  before 
the  crowd." 

The  tavern-keeper  took  the  copper  coins  which 
the  priest  paid  him,  and  Father  John,  on  his  part, 
saluted  the  others,  and  turned  as  if  he  would  go 
away,  when  the  persistent  officer  stopped  him. 

"  Not  so  fast,  my  friend.  You  know  very  well 
that  I  have  good  right  to  question  you,  and  you 
must  not  wonder  if  I  suspect  you.  If  you  take 
a  little  ride  to-night  with  me  and  my  friends  here 
to  the  Chateau  of  Meyzieux,  where  we  are  going, 
I  promise  you  as  good  a  bed  there  as  Messer 
Jean  Waldo  will  give  you.  Then  you  can  ride 
into  Lyons  with  us  in  the  morning,  and  can  make 
a  little  visit  to  the  Viguier  with  me,  before  you  go 
to  your  Christmas  dinner.  That  will  give  him  a 
chance  to  give  you  another  parchment  pass ;  and 
I  am  quite  sure  he  will  be  glad  to  do  so,  unless 
he  wants  your  closer  company." 

And  he  gave  a  loud  guffaw  of  laughter,  in  which 
his  two  companions  joined. 

For  the  peasants  and  the  tavern-keeper,  they 


/TV  HIS  NAME.  151 

were  too  much  accustomed  to  such  acts  of  petty 
tyranny  on  the  part  of  petty  officials  to  show  sur- 
prise. Indeed,  they  hardly  felt  it.  John  of  Lugio 
knew  that,  though  he  might  have  their  sympathy, 
they  would  not  render  to  him  any  sort  of  help  if 
he  defied  in  the  least  the  authority  of  his  perse 
cutors. 

With  that  same  unperturbed  manner  which  he 
had  shown  all  along,  he  laughed  good-naturedly, 
and  said  at  once,  what  was  perfectly  true :  — 

"  The  Viguier  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  and  will 
remember  me  very  well."  Then  he  added,  "  Sup- 
pose I  meet  you  and  your  friends  as  you  come 
into  town  to-morrow,  and  go  round  there  and  see 
him.  I  give  you  my  hand  on  it  that  I  will  be  at 
the  drawbridge  at  any  time  you  name." 

And  he  offered  his  bare  hand. 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  sternly  and  slowly.  "  We 
are  not  such  fools  as  to  take  men's  hands,  unless 
to  put  handcuffs  on  them.  You  will  go  to  Mey- 
zieux  with  us  in  half  an  hour.  Till  then  you  may 
come  into  the  house  and  drink  with  us,  or  you 
may  stay  out  here  and  freeze,  as  it  pleases  you. 
Michel,  Antoine,  keep  your  eyes  on  him,  and  see 


152 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


that  he  does  not  leave."  And  he  turned  to  go  into 
the  tavern.  But  he  saw  that  the  priest  made  no 
resistance.  On  the  other  hand,  he  dismounted  at 
once,  and  occupied  himself  in  looking  for  some- 
thing which  had  clogged  the  shoe  of  the  noble 
horse  which  he  was  riding. 

At  this  moment  the  attention  of  all  parties  was 
engaged  by  the  arrival  of  a  new-comer  upon  the 
scene.  The  surly  officer  himself  loitered  on  the 
steps  of  the  inn,  when  he  heard  the  clear,  loud 
voice  of  the  troubadour:  — 

"  Who  will  listen  yet  again 

To  the  old  and  jovial  strain,  — 
The  old  tale  of  love  that's  ever  new  i 

She's  a  girl  as  fair  as  May, 

He's  a  boy  as  fresh  as  day, 
And  the  story  is  as  gay  as  it  is  true." 

The  voice  was  a  perfectly  clear  and  pure  tenor. 
The  air  was  lively  without  being  rapid,  and  the 
enunciation  and  emphasis  of  the  singer  were 
perfect.  The  poor  beast  he  rode  came  panting 
into  the  crowd,  his  sides  wet  and  dirty ;  and  the 
singer,  with  undisguised  satisfaction,  sprang  from 
his  back,  and  threw  the  rein  to  a  staJ  Je-boy. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


153 


"  Your  servant,  gentlemen,  —  your  servant,  gen- 
tlemen, —  are  there  no  lovers  of  the  gay  science 
in  this  honorable  company  ?  "  And  in  that  clear, 
powerful  tone,  he  began  again  :  — 

"  Who  will  hear  the  pretty  tale 

Of  my  thrush  and  nightingale,  — 
Of  the  dangers  and  the  sorrows  that  he  met  ? 

How  he  fought  without  a  fear 

For  his  charming  little  dear, 
Aucassin  and  his  loving  Nicolette." 

"  A  beautiful  song,  and  a  story  that  will  make 
you  laugh  and  make  you  cry,  gentlemen,  both  to- 
gether. 

"  Will  you  hear  the  pretty  tale,  or  is  it  too  gay 
for  you  ?  We  are  not  always  gay.  We  trouveres 
have  fathers  and  mothers  and  sisters  and  brothers 
like  the  rest  of  you.  We  have  to  lay  our  little 
babies  in  the  ground  sometimes,  as  you  do."  All 
this  he  said  perfectly  seriously  and  reverently. 
"We  love  the  good  God  as  you  love  Him,  and 
we  can  tell  you  the  stories  of  the  saints  and 
of  the  prophets ;  may  God  bless  us  all  as  wa 
do  so." 

And  then  in  a  minor  key,  and  with  a  strain 


I i\T  HIS  NAME. 


wholly  different,  he  sang  slowly,  and  almost  in 
tears,  it  seemed, — 

%i  For  the  love  of  Christ  our  Saviour  along  the  road  1 
came, 

And  what  I  stop  to  sing  you,  I  sing  it  IN  His  name." 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that  John  of  Lugio 
caught  the  indication  given  to  him,  that  this  was 
a  friend,  from  whom  he  had  been  so  rashly  escap- 
ing. The  poor  brute  before  him  was  still  panting 
from  the  efforts  which  the  rider  had  made  to  over- 
take Cceur-Blanc  before  he  reached  the  trap  into 
which  the  priest  had  fallen.  In  that  the  singer 
had  failed.  But  none  the  less  had  he  bravely 
pressed  on  and  entered  that  trap  himself.  And 
by  the  little  scrap  he  sang,  he  revealed  himself  as 
a  friend  to  the  other,  —  one  friend  who  could  be 
relied  upon  in  the  midst  of  indifferent  spectators 
and  avowed  enemies.  John  of  Lugio  did  not  dare 
reply,  even  by  a  glance.  The  singer  needed  no 
leply,  and  looked  for  no  glance.  He  went  on,  as 
they  all  sat  down  in  the  one  room  of  the  tavern, 
as  if  he  were  rattling  on  in  the  fashion  of  his 
ciaft :  — 


/A  HIS  NAME. 


155 


"  Or  I  have  the  new  song,  which  won  the  golden 
violet  last  year,  — • 

"In  a  pretty  little  meadow,  in  a  country  that  I  know, 
A  pretty  little  flower  did  bourgeon  and  did  grow  ; 
Its  root  was  in  a  dunghill,  but  day  to  day  would  bring 
Fresh  food  and  fragrance  to  the  weed,  all  through  the  day9 
of  spring." 

His  clear  resonant  voice  was  fairly  triumphant 
as  the  words  rolled  on.  But  he  stopped  and  said, 
"  Boy,  bring  me  my  little  guitar ;  if  I  am  to  sing 
to  the  gentlemen,  I  must  play  to  them  too.  Only 
tell  me  what  it  shall  be,  gentlemen." 

"  Let  it  be,"  said  John  of  Lugio,  boldly,  "  the 
song  you  sing  '  For  the  Love  of  Christ  and  in  His 
Name.' "  And  thus  he  opened  his  communication 
with  the  other. 

The  chief  of  the  officers  turned  with  an  undis- 
guised sneer  upon  his  prisoner.  "  So,"  said  he, 
u  we  are  coming  the  godly,  are  we  ?  That's  old 
chaff  for  such  as  we,  Mr.  Friend's  friend.  Sing 
one  of  your  love  songs." 

"Love  songs  be  hanged!"  said  the  keeper  of 
the  inn ;  "  the  girls  here  say  they  have  heard 
about  Nicolette  and  Aucassin  till  they  are  tired  j 


i56 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


they  want  the  new  song,  the  song  of  the  violet 
Can  you  teach  it  to  them,  Messer  Trouvere  ? " 

"  I  can  sing  it,  and  I  can  teach  it,  too,  to  such 
apt  scholars  as  Mademoiselle  Anne,"  said  the 
singer,  rising  and  bowing  as  the  buxom  girl  came 
into  the  room  rather  shyly,  with  one  or  two  of  her 
village  companions.  The  troubadour,  with  some 
exercise  of  authority,  cleared  a  place  for  them 
where  he  sate  himself,  — made  the  boys  rise  from 
their  seats  on  a  settle  that  the  young  women  might 
have  them,  ran  over  the  air  once  or  twice  on  the 
guitar,  and  sang  again. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  VIOLET  OF  GOLD. 

i. 

In  a  pretty  little  meadow,  in  a  country  that  I  know, 
A  pretty  little  flower  did  bourgeon  ard  did  grow  ; 
Its  root  was  in  a  dunghill,  but  every  day  would  bring 
Fresh  food  and  fragrance  for  the  flower,  all  through  the 

days  of  spring. 
But  when  the  spring  was  over,  and  because  it  was  not 

strong, 

The  cruel  wind  came  winding  down,  and  did  it  wretched 
wrong  ; 

And  then  came  winter's  frost,  and  stretched  it  on  the  earth* 
Above  the  dirty  dunghill  on  which  it  had  its  birth 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


iS7 


ii. 

By  the  pretty  little  meadow  beneath  the  sunny  skies 
Is  meant  this  wicked  world  of  ours,  which  lures  us  with 
its  lies  ; 

For  evil  takes  away  the  light  of  life  from  me  and  you, 
And  brings  us  wicked  tales  to  tell,  and  naughty  deeds  to 
do. 

We  live  along  our  little  lives  all  foolish  and  forlorn, 
Nor  turn  to  look  a  minute  on  the  place  where  we  weie 
born  ; 

So  comes  it  that  through  winding  ways,  in  which  our  soula 
are  tried, 

We  stumble  stupid  onward,  with  wickedness  for  guide. 

III. 

I  say  the  little  flower,  which  in  the  meadow  grew, 
Grew  fair  and  then  grew  foul,  just  like  me  and  just  like 
you  : 

We're  gayly  clad  and  bravely  fed,  when  first  our  lives 
begin, 

Before  the  enemy  of  man  seduces  us  to  sin. 
So  God  has  made  the  sight  of  heaven  above  the  sunny 
sky, 

As  the  blue  flowers  of  spring-time  bloom  bright  before  the 
eye; 

But  then  the  fool  of  petty  pride  forgets  where  he  wai 
born, 

And  dies  the  death  of  sinful  shame,  all  foolish  and  for 
lorn 


i58 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


IV. 

And  the  dungtill  where  the  flower  did  flourish  and  did  fade 
Is  the  dust  of  earth  from  which  the  Lord  our  father  Adam 
made  ; 

His  children's  children  lived  the  lives  of  sinfulness  and 
shame, 

From  which  the  breath  of  being  to  our  fathers'  fathers 
came. 

We  climb  the  mountains  high,  and  valleys  low  descend, 
We  toil  and  moil,  and  crowd  with  care  our  lives  unto  the 
end  ; 

And  when  we  die,  all  this  we  have  is  treasure  thrown 
away, 

And  nothing's  left  us  for  the  tomb,  except  a  clod  of  clay. 

v. 

The  cruel  wind  which  bent  the  flower,  and  crushed  it  like 
a  weed, 

I  say,  is  grasping  pride  of  life,  —  is  avarice  and  greed, 
Which  teaches  us  to  hide  our  heads,  and  steal  and  chea* 
and  lie  ; 

And  so  it  is  that  wicked  folks  torment  us  till  we  die. 
And  then,  again,  this  winter  wild,  which  sweeps  away  the 
flower, 

I  say,  ft  false  and  cruel  Death  exulting  in  his  power. 
He  grasps  us  in  his  hard  embrace,  until  all  life  is  fled, 
And  throws  us  on  the  dunghill,  when  he  knows  our  flesh 
is  dead. 1 

1  The  author  hastens  to  admit  the  anachronism  of  intro- 
ducing here  this  little  poem.  It  received  the  Violet  of 
Gold  in  the  vear  1345. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


The  giils  were  nodding  to  the  air,  and  were 
much  more  interested  in  that,  perhaps,  than  in 
the  words,  —  but  the  leader  of  the  gens-d,armes> 
\i  we  may  again  use  the  modern  word,  expressed 
his  scorn  for  the  whole. 

"  Bring  him  some  wine,  Jean  ;  wet  his  whistle 
for  him.  Dunghills  and  Death,  indeed,  is  that 
the  best  he  has  to  sing  of  ?  Give  him  some  wine, 
and  give  me  some  \  give  everybody  some.  Mr 
Friend's  friend's  friend,  take  some  wine  to  show 
you  bear  no  malice.  Girls  !  have  some  wine  ;  all 
drink,  and  then  let  him  tell  us  his  love  story." 

With  a  good  deal  of  bustle  and  readjustment  ol 
the  company,  with  much  fuss  at  serving  wine  foi 
so  many,  these  arbitrary  orders  were  executed. 
The  troubadour,  meanwhile,  was  thrumming  on 
his  guitar,  —  tuning  it,  —  and  striking  chords,  or 
trying  one  or  another  bit  of  the  tune.  When  the 
captain  gave  word,  at  last,  that  they  were  all 
ready,  he  began  again  with  the  same  song  with 
which  he  had  at  first  arrested  their  attention  •  — 

i. 

Who  will  listen  yet  again, 

To  the  old  and  jovial  strain,  — 


i  Co 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


The  old  tale  of  love  that's  always  new  •* 

She's  a  girl  as  fair  as  May, 
He's  a  boy  as  fresh  as  day, 
And  the  story  is  as  gay  as  it  is  true. 

II. 

Who  will  hear  the  pretty  tale 

Of  my  thrush  and  nightingale,  — 
Of  the  dangers  and  the  sorrows  that  he  Ofcri  i 

How  he  fought  without  a  fear, 

For  his  charming  little  dear, 
Aucassin,  and  his  loving  Nicolette. 

in. 

For,  my  lords,  I  tell  you  true, 

That  you  never  saw  or  knew 
Man  or  woman  so  ugly  or  so  gray, 

Who  would  not  all  day  long 

Sit  and  listen  to  the  song 
And  the  story  that  I  tell  you  here  to-day. 

"THE  STORY  OF  NICOLETTE  AND  AUCASSIN." 

"  Now  you  must  know,  my  lords  and  my  ladies, 
that  the  Count  Bougars  of  Valence  chose  to  make 
war  with  the  Count  Garin  of  Beaucaire.  And  the 
war  was  so  cruel,  that  the  Count  never  let  one  day 
go  by,  but  what  he  came  thundering  at  the  walls 
and  barriers  of  the  town,  with  a  hundred  knights 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


161 


and  with  ten  thousand  men-at-arms,  on  foot  and 
on  horseback,  who  burned  all  the  houses,  and 
stole  all  the  sheep,  and  killed  all  the  people  that 
they  could. 

"  Now  the  Count  Garin  de  Beaucaire  was  very 
old  and  was  sadly  broken  with  years.  He  had 
useci  his  time  very  ill,  had  the  Count  de  Beaucaire. 
And  the  old  wretch  had  no  heir,  either  son  or 
daughter,  except  one  boy,  whose  name  was 

AUCASSIN. 

"  Aucassin  was  gentle  and  handsome.  He  was 
lall  and  well  made ;  his  legs  were  good  and  his 
feet  were  good,  his  body  was  good  and  his  arms 
were  good.  His  hair  was  blond,  a  little  curly  ; 
his  eyes  were  like  gray  fur,  for  they  wrere  near 
silver  and  near  blue,  and  they  laughed  when  you 
looked  at  them.  His  nose  was  high  and  well 
placed ;  his  face  was  clear  and  winning.  Yes, 
and  he  had  every  thing  charming,  and  nothing 
bad  about  him.  But  this  young  man  was  so 
wholly  conquered  by  love,  —  who  conquers  every- 
body, —  that  he  would  not  occupy  himself  in  any 

other  thing.    He  would  not  be  a  knight,  he  would 

11 


[N  HIS  NAME. 


not  take  arms,  he  would  not  go  to  the  tourneys, 
he  would  not  do  any  of  the  things  he  ought  to  do. 

"  His  father  was  very  much  troubled  by  this, 
and  he  said  to  him  one  morning :  — 

" 1  My  son,  take  your  arms,  mount  your  horse, 
defend  your  country,  protect  your  people.  If 
they  only  see  you  in  the  midst  of  them,  this  will 
give  them  more  courage ;  they  will  fight  all  the 
better  for  their  lives  and  their  homes ;  for  your 
land  and  mine. 

" '  Father,'  said  Aucassin,  1  why  do  you  say  this 
to  me  ? 

" 4  May  God  never  hear  my  prayers,  if  I  ever 
mount  horse,  or  go  to  tourney,  or  to  battle,  before 
you  have  yourself  given  to  me  my  darling  Nico- 
lette,  —  my  sweetheart  whom  I  love  so  dearly.' 

" '  My  son,'  said  the  father  to  him,  '  this  cannot 
be. 

" 1  Give  up  for  ever  your  dreams  of  this  captive 
girl,  whom  the  Saracens  brought  from  some  strange 
land,  and  sold  to  the  Viscount  here. 

"  '  He  trained  her ;  he  baptized  her ;  she.  is  his 
god-child. 

" '  Some  day  he  will  give  her  to  some  brav 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


163 


feJow  who  will  have  to  gain  his  bread  by  his 
sword. 

"  *  But  you,  my  son,  when  the  time  comes  thai 
you  wish  to  take  a  wife,  I  will  give  you  some  king's 
daughter,  or  at  least  the  daughter  of  a  count. 

"'There  is  not  in  all  Provence  a  man  so  rich 
that  may  not  many  his  daughter,  if  you  choose. ' 

"So  said  the  old  man.  But  Aucassin  re 
plied :  — 

" '  Alas,  my  father ;  there  is  not  in  this  world 
the  principality  which  would  not  be  honored  if  my 
darling  Nicolette,  my  sweetest,  went  to  live  there. 

" '  If  she  were  Queen  of  France  or  of  England ; 
if  she  were  Empress  of  Germany  or  of  Greece, 
she  could  not  be  more  courteous  or  more  gracious  \ 
she  could  not  have  sweeter  ways  or  greater  vir- 
tues.' " 


At  this  point  the  troubadour  nodded  to  the  girl 
Anne,  who,  as  she  had  said,  knew  the  airs  and 
the  songs  of  the  little  romance.  One  of  the  vil- 
lage girls  joined  her,  and  thus  in  trio  the  three 
sang  :  — 

All  the  night  and  all  the  day 
Aucassin  would  beg  and  pray  : 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


"Oh,  my  father,  give  my  Nicolette  to  mc,w 
Then  his  mother  came  to  say : 
"What  is  it  that  my  foolish  boy  can  sec?" 
—  "  Nicolette  is  sweet  and  gay." 

"But  Nicolette's  a  slave. 

If  a  wife  my  boy  would  have, 
Let  him  choose  a  lady  fair  of  high  degree." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  my  mother,  no  ! 

For  I  love  my  darling  so. 

Her  face  is  always  bright, 

And  her  footstep's  always  light, 

And  I  cannot  let  my  dainty  darling  go  ! 
No,  mother  dear,  she  rules  my  heart ! 
No,  mother  dear,  we  cannot  part !  " 

The  commander  of  the  squad  of  policemen  had 
not  been  mistaken  in  his  estimate  of  the  attractive 
powers  of  fiction,  sentiment,  and  religion  in  such 
an  assembly  as  that  around  the  tavern.  As  the 
little  love  story  went  on,  with  the  song  belonging 
to  it,  groups  of  idlers  out-doors  pressed  into  the 
great  doorway  of  the  tavern.  The  grooms  left 
with  the  horses  arranged  that  one  boy  only  should 
hold  them  all ;  and  he,  getting  hint  of  what  was 
passing,  made  shift  to  knot  the  bridles  together, 
to  fasten  them  all  to  a  halter  at  the  corner  of  the 
house,  and  to  crowd  in  after  the  rest.    From  the 


IN  HIS  NAME 


165 


other  cottage,  which  was  used  as  a  kitchen  in 
the  establishment,  two  or  three  more  women  ap 
peared,  —  older  than  Anne  and  her  companions, 
—  and  for  these,  as  before,  seats  were  provided 
on  a  settle.  This  last  arrangement  made  a  little 
delay,  but  so  soon  as  the  women  were  seated,  the 
brisk  troubadour  went  on. 

"  When  the  Count  Garin  of  Beaucaire  saw  that 
he  could  not  drag  Nicolette  out  from  the  heart  of 
Aucassin,  he  went  to  find  the  Viscount,  who  war 
his  vassal,  and  he  said  to  him :  — 

" 6  Sir  Viscount,  we  must  get  rid  of  your  god- 
child, Nicolette. 

" '  Cursed  be  the  country  where  she  was  born, 
for  she  is  the  reason  why  I  am  losing  my  Aucas- 
sin, who  ought  to  be  a  knight,  and  who  refuses  to 
do  what  he  ought  to  do. 

"'If  I  can  catch  her,  I  will  burn  her  at  the 
stake,  and  I  will  burn  you  too.' 

" '  My  lord/  replied  the  Viscount,  '  I  am  very 
sorry  for  what  has  happened,  but  it  is  no  fault  ol 
mine. 

" '  1  bought  Nicolette  with  my  money ;  I  trained 
her  ;  1  had  her  baptized,  and  she  is  my  god  child 


106 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


" 1 1  wanted  to  marry  her  to  a  fine  young  man 
of  mine,  who  would  gladly  have  earned  her  bread 
for  her,  which  is  more  than  your  son  Aucassin 
could  do. 

"'But  since  your  wish  and  your  pleasure  are 
what  they  are,  I  will  send  this  god-child  of  mine 
away  to  such  a  land  in  such  a  country  that  Aucas- 
sin shall  never  set  his  eyes  upon  her  again.' " 

The  little  audience  of  the  troubadour,  quite 
unused  to  "  sensation  "  of  this  sort,  many  of  them 
fresh  as  children  to  the  charm  of  a  well-told  story, 
pressed  closer  and  closer  to  him.  With  the 
rarest  of  gifts,  and  that  least  possible  to  gain  by 
study,  the  trouvere  fairly  talked  to  them  in  tones 
of  perfect  conversational  familiarity.  His  eyes 
caught  sympathizing  eyes  as  he  glanced  from  side 
to  side  of  the  room,  and  his  animation  quickened, 
and  his  words  became  more  confidential.  At 
last,  indeed,  he  addressed  himself  personally  to 
the  Captain ;  when  he  was  fully  satisfied  that,  in 
the  confusion  which  accompanied  the  entrance 
of  the  women,  John  of  Lugio  had  risen  from  his 
quiet  seat  behind  the  inner  door,  and  had,  un- 
noticed, left  the  room. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


167 


The  troubadour  continued  in  his  most  confi- 
dential narrative  tone, — 

"'See  that  you  do  so/  cried  the  Count  Garin 
to  the  Viscount,  '  or  great  misfortunes  will  come 
to  you.' 

"  So  saying,  he  left  his  vassal. 

"  Now  the  Viscount  had  a  noble  palace,  of  high 
walls,  surrounded  by  a  thickly  planted  garden. 
He  put  Nicolette  into  one  of  the  rooms  of  this 
palace,  in  the  very  highest  story. 

"  She  had  an  old  woman  for  her  only  com- 
panion, with  enough  bread  and  meat  and  wine, 
and  every  thing  else  that  they  needed  to  keep  them 
alive. 

"Then  he  fastened  and  concealed  the  door,  so 
that  no  one  could  go  in,  and  he  left  no  other  open 
ing  but  the  window,  which  was  very  narrow,  and 
opened  on  the  garden." 

Again  the  story-teller  nodded  to  the  two  girl3| 
and  they  sang  all  together:  — 

u  Nicolette  was  put  in  prison  ; 
And  a  vaulted  room, 
Wonderfully  built  and  painted, 
Was  her  prison-home. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


"The  pretty  maiden  came 
To  the  marble  window -frame  ; 
Her  hair  was  light, 
Her  eyes  were  bright, 
And  her  face  was  a  charming  face  to  so©. 
No  ;  never  had  a  knight 
A  maid  with  such  a  charming  face  to  see. 

"  She  looked  into  the  garden  close, 

And  there  she  saw  the  open  rose, 

Heard  the  thrushes  s  ng  and  twitter, 

And  she  sang  in  accent  bitter : 
Oh,  why  am  I  a  captive  here  ? 

Why  locked  up  in  cruel  walls  ?  — 
Aucassin,  my  sweetheart  dear, 

Whom  my  heart  its  master  calls, 
I  have  been  your  sweetheart  for  this  livelong  year  I 

That  is  why  I've  come 

To  this  vaulted  room. 
But  by  God,  the  Son  of  Mary,  no  1 
I  will  not  be  captured  so  ! 
If  only  I  can  break  away,  and  go  ! n 

Then  the  troubadour  continued :  — 
"  So  Nicolette  was  put  in  prison,  as  you  have 
just  heard,  and  soon  a  cry  and  noise  ran  through 
the  country  that  she  was  lost.  Some  said  that  she 
had  run  away ,  others  said  that  the  Count  Garin 
de  Beaucaire  had  killed  her. 

"  All  in  despair  at  the  joy  which  this  news 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


seemed  to  cause  to  some  people,  Aucassin  went 
to  find  the  viscount  of  the  town. 

" 1  Lord  Viscount/  he  asked  him,  1  what  have 
you  done  with  Nicolette,  my  sweetest  love,  the 
thing  in  all  the  world  which  I  love  best  ? 

"  1  You  have  stolen  her  ! 

" '  Be  sure,  Viscount,  that  if  I  die  of  this,  the 
blame  shall  fall  on  you. 

" '  For,  surely,  it  is  you  who  tear  away  my  life 
in  tearing  away  my  darling  Nicolette  ! 1 

"  1  Fair  sir,'  answered  the  Viscount,  '  do  let  this 
Nicolette  alone,  for  she  is  not  worthy  of  you  \  she 
is  a  slave  whom  I  have  bought  with  my  deniers, 
and  she  must  serve  as  a  wife  to  a  young  fellow  of 
her  own  state,  to  a  poor  man,  and  not  to  a  lord 
like  you,  who  ought  to  marry  none  but  a  king's 
daughter,  or  at  least  a  count's  daughter. 

"  '  What  should  you  be  doing  for  yourself  if  you 
did  make  a  lady  of  this  vile  creature,  and  marry 
her? 

" 1  Then  would  you  be  very  happy,  indeed,  very 
happy,  for  your  soul  would  abide  for  ever  in  hell. 
And  never  should  you  enter  into  paradise/ 

"  '  Into  paradise  ?'  repeated  Aucassin.  angrily 


170 


IN  HIS  NAME 


'  And  what  have  I  to  do  there?  I  do  not  care  to 
go  there  if  it  be  not  with  Nicolette,  my  sweetest 
darling,  whom  I  love  so  much. 

"  '  Into  paradise  !  And  do  you  know  who  those 
ure  that  go  there,  you  who  think  it  is  a  place  where 
I  must  wish  to  go?  They  are  old  priests,  old 
cripples,  old  one-eyed  men,  who  lie  day  and  night 
before  the  altars,  sickly,  miserable,  shivering,  half 
naked,  half  fed ;  dead  already  before  they  die  ! 
These  are  they  who  go  to  paradise  ;  and  they  are 
such  pitiful  companions  that  I  do  not  desire  to  go 
to  paradise  with  them. 

"  'But  to  hell  would  I  gladly  go ;  for  to  hell  go 
the  good  clerks  and  the  fair  knights  slain  in  battle 
and  in  great  wars ;  the  brave  sergeants-at-arms 
and  the  men  of  noble  lineage.  And  with  all  these 
would  I  gladly  go.' 

"  '  Stop/  says  the  Viscount ;  1  all  which  you  can 
say,  and  nothing  at  all,  are  exactly  the  same  thing : 
never  shall  you  see  Nicolette  again. 

" i  What  you  and  I  may  get  for  this  would  not 
be  pleasant,  if  you  still  will  be  complaining. 

"'We  all  might  be  burned  by  your  fathers 
command,  —  Nicolette,  you,  and  myself  into  the 
bargain/ 


//V  HIS  NAME. 


171 


" '  Wo  is  me ! '  cried  Aucassin  in  his  anger,  and 
he  left  the  Viscount,  who  was  no  less  angry 
'han  himself. " 

The  company  gathered  nearer  and  nearer  to- 
gether, eager  not  to  lose  one  word.  Nor  was  any 
one  roused  from  the  interest  of  the  story,  till  a 
new  traveller  stopped  at  the  wretched  tavern. 

"  Hola  !  hola ! 99  he  cried.  "  Is  there  no  one  to 
care  for  my  horse  ? 99 

Antoine,  the  stable-boy,  rushed  out,  and  to  his 
shame  and  horror  all  the  horses  were  gone. 

But  with  the  agony  and  falsehood  of  despair,  he 
took  the  stranger's  horse,  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, and  said  to  him  :  — 

"  I  will  see  to  the  horse,  monsieur,  give  your- 
self no  care.  Will  you  step  into  the  house  ? 
There  is  the  best  trouvere  singing  there  who 
travels  all  over  this  country.  He  is  telling  the 
story  of  Nicolette. 

"  I  will  take  good  care  of  your  horse,  sir ;  nevei 
fear  me." 

For  poor  Antoine's  only  fear  was,  that  the  mas 
ter  of  the  newly  arrived  beast  would  stay  outside. 


1/2 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


In  fact  that  worthy  did  loiter  a  moment,  and 
gave  one  or  two  directions  about  his  horse.  Poor 
Antoine  was  dying  to  ask  him  if  he  met  five  sad- 
dled horses  as  he  came.  But  he  did  not  dare 
disgrace  himself  ;  and  he  thought,  wisely  enough, 
that  if  the  stranger  had  seen  any  such  cavalcade 
he  would  surely  have  mentioned  it. 

At  last,  by  repeated  solicitation,  he  induced  the 
man  to  enter  the  tavern,  and,  with  solicitude  wholly 
unusual,  the  stable-boy  drew  the  door  to,  after  the 
traveller  had  passed  in.  He  could  hear  the  trio 
again,  as  the  two  girls  joined  with  the  troubadour. 

But  the  poor  stable-boy  cursed  Nicolette  and 
Aucassin  both,  with  adjurations  and  anathemas 
such  as  they  had  never  heard,  and  wished  all 
troubadours  were  on  the  other  side  of  the  sea.  If 
those  horses  could  not  be  brought  back  before  his 
master,  or  before  the  Viguier's  officer  found  they 
were  gone,  he,  Antoine,  would  be  well  flogged 
before  he  went  to  bed.  That  was  certain.  No 
Christmas  holiday  for  him,  —  that  was  certain 
also.  And  whether,  at  the  beginning  of  a  cold 
winter,  he  were  not  put  in  handcuffs  and  carried 
to  one  of  those  horrid  prisons  which  he  had  heard 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


173 


tne  officers  talking  of,  —  of  this  the  frightened  boy 
was  by  no  means  certain. 

So  soon  as  he  had  closed  the  door,  instead  of 
leading  the  hot  and  wet  beast  intrusted  to  him 
to  the  stable,  as  he  knew  he  should  do,  he  fastened 
him  by  the  rein  firmly  but  quickly,  and  at  his  best 
speed  ran  up  the  road,  where  he  might  gain  the 
view  from  the  hill,  and  get  a  survey  of  the  whole 
meadow. 

"  For  the  cursed  brutes,"  he  said,  "  are  all  fast- 
ened together,  wherever  they  have  gone." 

And  then  he  reflected,  with  profound  satisfac- 
tion, that  the  tale  of  Nicolette  and  Aucassin  was 
very  long,  —  or  that  one  of  the  girls  had  told  him 
so  in  a  whisper.  Perhaps  they  would  stay  in  the 
tavern  longer  than  the  Captain  had  said,  if  only 
the  troubadour  could  make  it  entertaining  enough. 

Ah,  Antoine,  you  need  not  fear  the  troubadour  1 
He  is  making  it  as  entertaining  as  he  knows  how, 
—  and  that  is  what  he  is  there  for,  —  that  he  may 
keep  them  all  for  the  precious  minutes  that  shall 
take  Cceur-Blanc  into  Lyons. 

So  Antoine  pressed  up  the  road  to  the  little 
swell  of  land  over  which  it  passed,  from  which,  as 


174 


IN  HIS  A7 A  ML. 


he  approached,  John  of  Lugio  had  first  seen  the 
group  standing  at  the  tavern. 

The  poor  boy  came  up  the  hill,  all  out  of  breath, 
and  scanned  the  wide  meadows.  A  few  cows 
here ;  a  stray  traveller  or  two  there ;  clouds  of 
dust  on  the  highway,  which  might  conceal  this  or 
that  or  something  else,  —  who  should  say?  But 
no  definite  sign  of  the  horses. 

The  wretched  boy  climbed  a  tree ;  but  he  only 
lost  time,  and  saw  nothing.  He  could  see  that 
Philip  of  Fontroyes,  the  lame  man,  was  hobbling 
home  with  his  sorry  cow. 

The  boy  rushed  to  meet  Philip.  Philip  was 
very  deaf,  and,  like  other  dull  people,  could  not 
answer  the  square  question  put  to  him,  till  he 
knew  who  he  was  that  asked  it,  why  he  asked  it, 
and  for  what  purpose  he  asked  it.  When  he  was 
at  last  secure  on  these  points,  he  ventured  to 
say,— 

"  Horses,  no  horses ;  no,  no  horses.  There 
was  a  span  of  mules  .that  a  man  with  a  red  jerkin 
drove  by:  that  was  two  hours  ago.  Put  nc 
horses." 

As  Antoine  knew  that  if  Philip  had  had  an) 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


175 


eye,  or  any  memory,  he  must  have  reported  at 
least  the  passage  of  Cceur-Blanc,  and  that  of  the 
troubadour,  and  that  of  the  stranger  whom  he  had 
just  left  \  three  horses,  certainly ;  this  assurance 
that  no  horses  had  passed  on  the  road  was  anv 
thing  but  encouraging. 

Poor  boy !  he  looked  back  a  moment  on  the 
tavern  \  he  thought  of  the  pretty,  pleasant  way  in 
which  Lulu  had  spoken  to  him  only  that  morning, 
cj.d  of  the  blue  ribbon  he  had  ready  to  give  to 
her  the  next  day ;  he  thought,  shall  we  confess  it 
in  this  connection,  of  his  own  feast-day  suit  of 
clothes,  which  were  in  his  box  in  the  wretched 
attic  where  he  slept. 

But  he  thought  also  of  the  flogging  which  was 
so  sure  r  he  were  detected.  He  would  never  see 
Lulu  again,  nor  his  gay  garments  again !  He 
looked  his  last  on  the  tavern,  and  fled  along  the 
high  road  —  away  from  it  and  from  Lyons  —  as 
fast  as  his  feet  could  carry  him. 

The  troubadour,  who  saw  every  thing,  saw  or 
knew  or  felt  or  comprehended  the  entrance  of  the 
new-comer,  and  heard  Antoine  as  he  closed  the 
outer  dooi  ot  the  tavern.    The  troubadour  did  nol 


176 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


pause  a  moment  in  his  story.  The  stranger,  with 
a  courteous  gesture,  intimated  that  he  would  not 
interrupt  it,  and  took  the  seat  by  the  great  fire, 
which  Dame  Gravier,  with  a  good  deal  of  fuss  and 
pretence  of  hospitality,  cleared  for  him. 

The  captain  of  the  officers  started,  as  if  he  had 
perhaps  dozed  a  little  in  the  last  refrain  of  the 
singers,  but  really  gave  some  attention  to  the 
story-teller,  as  he  went  on  without  any  pause  — 
is  the  story  required  him  to  do  —  after  another 
little  song:  — 

Then  Aucassin  went  home  ; 
But  his  heart  was  wrung  with  fear 
By  the  parting  from  his  dainty  dear,  — 

His  dainty  dear  so  fair, 

Whom  he  sought  for  everywhere, 
But  nowhere  could  he  find  her,  far  or  near 
—  To  the  palace  he  has  come, 

And  he  climbs  up  every  stair,  — 
He  hides  him  in  his  room 

And  weeps  in  his  despair. 

"Oh,  my  Nicolette,"  said  he, 
"  So  dear  and  sweet  is  she  ! 
So  sweet  for  that,  so  sweet  for  this, 
So  sweet  to  speak,  so  sweet  to  kiss, 
So  sweet  to  come,  so  sweet  to  stay 
So  sweet  to  sing,  so  sweet  to  play, 


IN  HIS  TV  A  ME. 


1 77 


So  sweet  when  there,  so  sweet  when  here 
Oh,  my  darling !  Oh,  my  dear, 
Where  are  you,  my  sweet  ?  while  I 
Sit  and  weep  so  near  to  die, 
Because  I  cannot  find  my  darling  dear."  1 

To  a  modern  ear  it  is  difficult  to  give  the  im- 
piession  of  the  effect  of  the  long  closing  line,  as 
the  three  voices,  in  strict  unison,  closed  the  little 
song,  —  with  perfect  spirit,  running  up  rapidly  in 
a  whole  octave,  and  closing  an  octave  higher  than 
the  key-note,  to  which  they  would  naturally  have 
returned. 

The  narrative  then  continued  :  — 

"  Meanwhile,  I  can  tell  you,  the  righting  went  on. 
For  the  Count  Bougars  pressed  hard  on  the  Count 
Garin.  He  had  a  thousand  men-at-arms  in  one 
camp,  and  he  had  a  thousand  in  another.  And 
while  Aucassin  was  shut  up  in  his  chamber,  and 

1  The  original  is  very  pretty,  and  can  be  guessed  oat, 
trvsn  by  the  unlearned  reader  :  — 

"  Nicolete  biax  esters, 
Biax  venir  et  biax  alers, 
Biax  deduis  et  dous  parlers, 
Biax  borders  et  biax  jouers, 
Biax  baisiers,  biax  acolers." 
12 


1 7s  IN  HIS  NAME. 

Lamenting  his  dear  Nicolette,  the  Count  was  bring 
ing  up  great  battering-rams  to  hammer  down  the 
walls  of  the  city." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  grunted  the  Captain,  "  let  us  hear 
about  the  battering-rams.  I  was  sergeant  in  a 
battering-train  at  Gron,  myself,  I  was !  "  And  he 
drank  off  another  good  draught  from  his  tankard, 
and  then  dropping  back  in  his  chair,  gave  atten- 
tion in  the  manner  of  those  people  who  can  hear 
a  preacher  better  when  their  eyes  are  closed. 

"  He  brought  up  one  battering-ram,  with  a  very 
brave  sergeant  in  charge  of  it,  on  one  side  the 
city  ;  and,  on  another  side,  he  brought  up  another, 
with  two  counts  and  a  duke  in  charge  of  it. 

"  At  last  he  thought  all  was  ready  ;  and  on  each 
side  of  the  town  he  gathered  all  his  footmen  and 
all  his  honemen  for  the  assault." 

"  What  did  he  want  horsemen  for  to  storm 
breach  with  ? "  growled  the  sergeant. 

"  I  beg  your  honor's  pardon,"  said  the  trouvere, 
who  had  not  made  the  blunder  without  a  purpose. 
"But  the  troubadour  who  told  this  story  to  me 
had  not  seen  so  many  sieges  as  your  honor." 

"  I  should  think  not ;  I  should  think  not  * 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


179 


grunted  the  drunken  critic,  well  satisfied  with  the 
success  of  his  interruption,  and  the  trouvere  con- 
tinued as  confidentially  as  before,  and  as  if  the 
sergeant  was  his  only  auditor. 

"  Everybody  in  the  city  was  called  to  arms  to 
defend  the  walls.  They  supposed  that  the  attack 
would  be  made  on  the  eastern  side,  because  the 
breach  was  there." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  grunted  the  experienced  soldier, 
"  of  course  the  attack  would  be  made  where  the 
breach  was." 

And  he  nodded  complacently  upon  the  inn- 
keeper and  upon  his  own  companions,  as  if  he 
would  say,  "  Of  course  we  know  more  of  war  than 
these  singing  fellows  do." 

The  troubadour  continued  :  — 

"  The  principal  attacking  party  might  have 
gone  quite  wrong  had  it  been  left  to  the  dukes, 
but  the  brave  fellow  I  told  you  of  before  " — 

And  it  is  impossible  to  tell  what  wonders  the 
sergeant  on  his  side  might  have  wrought,  or  the 
duke  and  the  count  on  theirs,  in  vain  rivalry  with 
a  sergeant  so  puissant.  For  at  this  fatal  moment, 
the  horse  whom  Antoine  had  left  to  freeze,  think 


IN  HIS  NAME 


ing  it  was  quite  time  that  his  needs  should  bft  at- 
tended to,  gave  an  ominous  neigh. 
"  Neigh-eigh-eigh-eigh." 

The  sound  rang  through  the  crowded  room  ;  and 
Jean  the  innkeeper  himself  started  from  his  seat 
and  looked  around,  and,  seeing  that  all  the  ser- 
vants were  rushing  out-doors,  followed  them.  The 
master  of  the  horse  of  course  followed,  and  the 
officers;  and  the  troubadour  and  the  girls  were 
left  in  the  confusion  alone. 

"  Where's  Antoine  ?  where's  Antoine  ?  "  Cries 
of  Antoine  !  Antoine  !  resounded  everywhere.  To 
tell  the  truth,  the  tavern  was  not  unused  to  such 
clamor.  Poor  Antoine  was  the  man-of-all-work, 
always  summoned. 

"  Don't  come  out  into  the  cold,  sir !  "  said  Jean 
Gravier,  perfectly  used  to  making  up  the  scanty 
resources  of  his  wretched  tavern  by  the  boldest 
lying.  "  Go  back  into  the  inn,  if  you  please.  My 
wife  has  supper  ready.  Antoine  has  taken  the 
noises  to  water  them." 

"  Water  them  !  "  said  the  stranger  with  an  oath  \ 
"  and  why  has  he  not  taken  mine  to  groom  him 
and  give  him  a  bed,  as  he  said  he  would  ?  The 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


beast  is  well  nigh  frozen  already,  while  you  and 
your  people  are  singing  your  love-songs." 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Jean  Gravier,  "  I 
shall  rub  him  down  myself."  And  he  led  the 
poor  wretch  to  the  stable,  wondering  where  An- 
toine  was  with  the  other  horses,  and  beckoning  to 
Ode,  one  of  the  hangers-on,  to  follow. 

"  Jean  Gravier,  come  back  \  what  is  all  this  row 
about,  and  what  are  you  doing  with  the  horses  of 
the  honorable  men-at-arms  of  the  Bishop  and 
Chapter  of  Lyons?" 

With  many  oaths,  some  hiccough,  and  othei 
interruptions,  the  captain  of  the  policemen,  stand- 
ing upon  the  step,  thus  hailed  the  tavern-keeper. 

Jean  Gravier  pretended  not  to  hear. 

"  Come  back,  you  dog,  come  back,  and  answer 
to  the  charge  made  against  you."  This  was  the 
second  appeal  of  the  drunken  fool,  who  doubted  a 
little  his  own  ability  to  run  after  the  delinquent 
vintner,  and  made  up  in  grandeur  of  words  for 
whatever  failure  of  bodily  force  he  was  con* 
scious  of. 

Jean  Gravier  did  not  dare  go  on. 

"For  God's  sake,  find  the  horses,  Ode.  Send 


/ 


182 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


Pierre  up  the  road,  and  send  Andre'  down  ;  unless, 
indeed,  which  God  grant,  that  brute  of  an  Antoine 
has  had  the  grace  to  put  them  all  into  the  stable." 

And,  with  the  happy  thought  of  a  new  lie,  he 
turned  to  the  stranger,  who  was  following  him  in 
a  rage,  and  said.  — 

"  I  did  not  understand,  monsieur.  The  bov 
has  taken  them  all  to  the  stable,  it  was  so  cold/ 

"  Took  them  to  the  stable !  Why  did  he  not 
take  mine  to  the  stable?  What  do  I  care  foi 
other  people's  horses  ?    I  will  groom  my  own  !  " 

And,  with  little  comfort,  Jean  Gravier  was  lef  / 
to  take  the  rage  of  the  diunken  sergeant. 

But  this  rage,  and  the  rage  of  the  two  officers, 
who  abetted  and  applauded  the  threats  and  abuse 
of  their  chief,  need  not  be  written  down.  Jean 
Gravier  bent  before  the  storm,  acknowledged  that 
it  was  natural  that  his  guests  should  be  indignant, 
but  explained  that  they  were  wholly  mistaken, 
lie  repeated  eagerly  his  lie  that  the  horses  were 
in  the  stable,  praying  to  all  the  saints  in  the  cal- 
endar that  they  might  prove  to  be  so.  In  a  mo- 
ment more,  he  was  relieved  from  the  necessity  of 
inventing  any  more  lies  by  a  shout  from  Andrd 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


183 


who  appeared  in  the  roadway,  leading  out  four  ot 
the  five  horses  from  behind  an  old  mill,  which 
stood  perhaps  a  furlong  along  the  Lyons  road,  in 
the  direction  exactly  opposite  that  which  Antoine 
had  taken. 

Ah  me !  if  Antoine  had  dared  ask  the  stran 
ger  if  he  met  five  horses  saddled,  he  would 
have  gone  the  right  way  when  he  did  go  wrong  ; 
he  would  have  found  the  horses  ;  he  would  have 
brought  them  back  undetected ;  he  would  have 
given  Lulu  her  ribbon  on  Christmas-day,  and 
would  have  worn  his  own  fine  clothes.  And  now 
the  poor  boy  is  flying,  as  if  for  life,  across  the 
meadows. 

Andre  came  leading  along  the  coffle  of  horses. 
For  a  moment  no  one  observed  that  there  were 
but  four,  and  should  be  five ;  but,  the  moment  he 
came  to  the  tavern  with  them,  the  loss  of  Cceur- 
Blanc  was  evident. 

"  It  is  that  damned  horse-thief  from  Mey- 
rieux ! "  cried  Jean  Gravier,  the  tavern-keeper  \ 
"  and  he  has  stolen  the  best  horse  of  them  all." 
And  Jean  Gravier  went  sadly  back  into  the  tavern, 
to  think  what  lie  he  should  invent  to  satisfy  the 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


quiet  gentleman  with  white  hair  who  sat  behind 
the  door. 

But,  as  the  reader  knows,  the  quiet  gentleman 
with  white  hair  had  taken  leave  long  before. 

All  this  time  he  had  been  increasing  the  dis- 
tance between  him  and  the  tavern  as  rapidly  as 
Cceur-Blanc's  longest  stride  would  take  him.  The 
sun  was  yet  more  than  half  an  hour  high,  though 
he  had  lost  certainly  half  an  hour  in  that  misera- 
ble altercation,  and  in  the  enforced  delay  in  the 
tavern. 

At  the  moment  when  he  found  himself  free,  he 
had  not  mounted  Cceur-Blanc ;  he  had  only  cut 
the  long  halter  at  the  place  where  it  was  fastened 
to  the  house,  and  by  it  had  led  along  the  five 
horses  together,  as  if  to  the  trough  where  they 
were  used  to  be  watered.  If  any  one  within  the 
room  heard  their  tread,  he  supposed  the  stable- 
boys  were  leading  them  to  the  trough,  and  to  the 
covei  which,  as  evening  drew  on,  they  all  required. 
As  the  horses  drank,  John  of  Lugio  mounted  his 
own.  Not  losing  his  hold  of  the  halter,  he  walked 
carefully  two  hundred  yards  or  more  into  the 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


I85 


shelter  of  a  little  copse  and  of  a  deserted  mill 
Here  he  stopped,  eager  for  time  though  he  was, 
and  once  more  securely  tethered  them  all.  Then 
was  it  that  he  gave  Cceur-Blanc  his  head  \  and 
for  the  next  fifteen  minutes  he  rode  like  the  wind. 

He  understood  then,  what  the  reader  under- 
stands, that  the  troubadour,  whose  salutation  he 
had  acknowledged,  but  whose  call  he  had  not  re- 
garded, had  been  acting  as  his  true  friend,  in  an 
emergency  when  he  had  no  other. 

The  man  was  one  of  the  affiliated  "  Poor  Men 
of  Lyons."  That  was  made  certain  by  the  signal 
he  had  given. 

He  had  recognized  John  of  Lugio,  but  in  that 
uncertain  way  that  a  minute  had  passed  before  he 
was  sure  of  his  man.  Then  was  it  that  the  good 
fellow  had  been  certain  that  the  priest,  whom  all 
the  "  Poor  Men  of  Lyons  "  loved  and  honored, 
was  riding  into  danger ;  and  then  was  it  that  he 
had  turned  and  hailed  him,  in  the  hope  that  he 
might  in  time  save  him  from  the  inspection  and 
inquiry  of  the  officers,  whom  the  troubadour  had 
passed  just  before  at  the  tavern.  In  truth,  he  had 
gladly  evaded  them  himself  ;  for  the  reputation  of 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


the  Lyonnais  officers  was  so  bad  thai  any  man  of 
peace  was  glad  to  keep  out  of  the  way  when  it 
was  in  his  power. 

And  now,  as  Father  John  saw,  the  good  fellow 
had  boldly  come  to  the  rescue,  and  had  taken  the 
chances  of  sharing  his  fate,  that  he  might  also 
take  the  chance  of  coming  to  his  relief.  The 
priest  did  not  dare  think  he  was  safe  himself  till 
he  crossed  the  long  bridge.  But  he  heard  no  out- 
cry behind  him  ;  and  every  minute,  as  Cceur-Blanc 
flew,  was  two  or  three  furlongs  gained. 

Fortunately  the  high  road  was,  for  a  while,  quite 
clear  of  passengers ;  so  that  the  tremendous  rate 
at  which  he  rode  challenged  but  little  attention. 

Fifteen  minutes  may  have  passed  before  he 
dared  take  a  pace  less  noticeable ;  and  by  that 
time  the  spires  of  Lyons  were  in  sight  in  the 
distance.  He  satisfied  himself  that  the  sun  was 
still  high  enough  for  him  to  pass  without  chal- 
lenge at  the  drawbridge.  And  then,  still  keeping 
up  a  bold  trot,  he  joined  with  one  and  another 
group  of  those  who  were  going  into  the  city,  and 
even  ventured  to  chat  with  some  of  them  as  to  the 
festivities  which  were  in  preparation.    The  Chap 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


I87 


ter  was  giving  more  distinction  than  ever  to 
Christmas  celebration,  perhaps  to  signalize  the 
advantages  which  the  people  of  Lyons  and  the 
neighborhood  were  to  gain  from  the  new  arrange 
merit  of  affairs,  which  made  them  temporal  mas- 
ters of  the  city  and  suburbs,  as  well  as  their 
spiritual  guides. 

Father  John  felt  a  little  sheltered  when  he  rode 
chatting  by  the  side  of  a  well-to-do  farmer,  who 
was  coming  in  by  invitation  to  spend  the  holiday 
with  his  brother  in  the  city.  In  front  of  them  was 
a  rude  cart,  covered  with  canvas,  in  which  were 
the  farmer's  daughters  and  his  wife.  The  talk 
fell,  as  it  always  did,  on  the  crusade  ;  and  the 
man  showed  ignorance  of  the  deepest  dye  as  to 
its  geography  and  its  causes,  which  the  priest  did 
his  best  to  enlighten. 

"  And  will  the  knights  be  back  with  the  heathen 
hounds  by  "Easter  ?  " 

"  The  good  God  knows,"  replied  the  priest, 
reverently. 

"  Yes ;  the  good  God  knows,  but  what  do  you 
±.nk  ?    They  have  been  gone  long." 
"  It  is  a  long  journey,    said  the  priest 


1 83  IN  HIS  NAME, 

"  Not  so  long,  though,  as  those  une  Englishmen 
had  come,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Father  John,  surprised  a  littlej 
"  much  longer  !  " 

"  Longer  than  they  had  come  ?  Why  did  they 
cross  the  sea  at  all,  then  ?  Why  not  go  by  land  ?  " 

Father  John  explained  that  England  was  on  an 
island  ;  that  if  the  King  of  England  left  his  do- 
minions at  all  he  must  cross  the  seas. 

"  And  do  King  Saladin  and  the  foul  fiend  Ma- 
hound,  —  do  they  live  on  another  island  ?  I  be- 
lieve," said  the  stout  farmer,  "  I  should  have  gone 
to  the  Holy  War  myself,  if  I  could  have  gone  by 
land." 

Father  John  explained  again  that  the  Holy  City 
was  not  on  an  island  ;  that  it  could  be  reached 
by  land. 

"  In  the  old  war,"  said  he,  "  many  of  the 
knights  went  by  land.  They  rode  their  good 
horses  all  the  way.  But  so  many  perished  that 
the  kings  have  taken  ship  this  time,  to  go  thither 
more  quickly." 

"Oh,"  cried  his  friend,  "they  are  all  wrong, 
Many  men  wcild  go  by  land  who  never  would  go 


I  A  HIS  NAME. 


189 


b)  sea.  I  am  one.  Philippe  there  is  two.  Jean, 
Hubert,  Joseph,  —  I  could  tell  you  seven  men 
who  would  go  were  there  no  sailing." 

The  priest  listened  kindly,  but  the  pace  to 
which  the  good  farmer  held  him  was  such  that  he 
dared  not  loiter  long.  He  bade  him  good-by,  and 
pressed  on,  to  join  one  and  another  group  of 
people,  who  were  attracted  in  the  same  way  tr 
the  city. 

But  always  he  was  expecting  to  hear  the  chal 
lenge  from  behind  of  the  Viguier's  officers. 

The  last  obstruction  of  all  was,  as  he  waited 
in  a  corner  of  the  road,  that  a  company  of  a  hun 
dred  or  more  mounted  soldiers  might  march  past 
him,  who  were  the  men  for  whom  his  persecutors 
had  ridden  in  advance,  that  they  might  provide 
their  quarters  for  the  night  at  Meyzieux.  The 
priesr  waited  till  the  last  of  them  had  gone,  and 
then  boldly  crossed  the  causeway  over  the  mead- 
ow before  they  came  to  the  temporary  bridge, 
where  he  was  to  pass  the  Rhone  for  the  last 
time,  —  the  bridge  which  poor  Prinhac  had 
crossed  so  fortunately  in  the  morning.  The 
sun  was  glowing,   red    and    angry,  above  the 


I  go  IN  HIS  NAME. 

height  of  Fourvieres,  and  Father  John  had  again 
so  far  relaxed  the  rate  of  bpeed  to  which  he  had 
held  the  horse,  that  his  more  decorous  trot  did 
not  attract  the  attention  of  the  town-servants,  who 
were  farmers'  boys,  and  were  going  out  of  the 
town  that  they  might  enjoy  the  festival  of  the  next 
day  at  their  fathers'  homes,  or  that  of  the  groups 
of  peasants  who  were  pressing  in  to  see  the  great 
solemnities  by  which  the  Chapter  celebrated  the 
Saviour's  birth,  and  amused  their  subjects  at  the 
same  time.  There  were,  indeed,  so  many  of  these 
parties  now,  and  they  proceeded  at  a  rate  so  con 
fidently  slow,  that  had  the  priest  any  doubt 
whether  he  should  find  the  gates  open,  the  num- 
ber of  travellers  would  have  reassured  him. 

At  the  bridge  itself  there  was  not  even  the  pre- 
tence of  any  examination  or  detention.  So  many 
of  the  towns-people  and  of  the  peasants  were  pass- 
ing in  or  passing  out,  that  it  seemed  to  be  taken 
as  an  exceptional  day,  when  the  usual  forms  of 
military  order  might  be  relaxed,  and  the  sentinel, 
\.Jo  was  lazily  sitting  on  a  bench  by  the  port- 
cullis, with  his  halberd  lying  by  his  side,  did  not 
so  much  as  challenge  the  passers-by.  Father 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


John,  who  had  heard  from  Prinhac  die  story  ol 
the  secret  of  his  passage,  looked  rather  curiously 
into  the  face  of  this  man,  and  of  his  officer  also, 
who  was  lounging  in  the  guard-house  behind  him. 
But  he  recognized  neither  of  them.  They  cer- 
tainly were  none  whom  he  had  known  among  the 
clients  of  his  "  Poor  Men  of  Lyons,"  and  prob- 
ably both  belonged  to  some  hireling  company  of 
soldiers  whom  the  Chapter  had  imported  from  an- 
other province. 

The  priest  had  picked  his  way  across  the  bridge 
slowly  and  with  caution,  and  now  entered  upon 
ground  where  every  house  was  familiar  to  him, 
and  had  some  story  of  grief  or  joy  in  his  old 
memories.  The  streets  were  more  alive  than 
usual,  because  the  eve  of  the  Festival  of  Christ- 
mas was  almost  as  much  a  holiday  as  was  the 
Christmas-day  proper.  And  Father  John  was  well 
aware  that,  had  he  been  dressed  in  the  proper 
uniform  of  his  profession,  any  fifth  person  he  me< 
would  have  recognized  him  as  one  of  the  pro- 
scribed men.  Recognition  was  dangerous  at  the 
nest  \  but  to-night  an  arrest  by  some  officer  of  the 
Viguier  would  make  delay  long  enough  to  defeat 


ig2 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


any  hope  of  his  rendering  the  service  he  had  been 
sent  for.  He  had,  therefore,  in  the  little  distance 
left  to  him,  as  he  threaded  the  streets  of  the  town, 
a  greater  risk  to  run  than  he  had  incurred  the 
whole  day  through.  His  risk  was  his  patient's 
risk,  and  he  must  avoid  it  as  best  he  could. 

The  priest  looked  eagerly  among  the  groups  of 
people  who  were  gathered  at  the  street  corners, 
in  the  hope  that  there  might  be  some  one  known 
to  him  as  belonging  to  the  affiliated  "  Poor  Men 
of  Lyons,"  whom  he  should  dare  withdraw  from 
the  crowd  by  a  signal,  who  would  take  the  well- 
known  horse  he  rode  quietly  to  its  master's 
stables,  while  he  himself  found  his  way  to  the 
house  on  foot,  and  so  escape  observation.  But 
the  handful  of  the  "Poor  Men"  who  were  in 
Lyons  did  not  care  much  for  such  street  gather- 
ings, nor,  indeed,  were  they  greatly  interested  in 
such  celebrations  of  Christmas  as  the  Abbot  had 
had  prepared.  The  priest  was  obliged  to  turn 
from  the  public  square  into  a  narrow  by-street, 
less  crowded  with  curious  idlers.  He  dismounted 
from  his  horse,  and  led  him  by  the  bridle,  and  so 
approached  a  group  of  boys  who  were  lounging 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


193 


in  the  open  gateway  of  a  tradesman's  court  yard 
He  held  out  a  copper  coin  in  his  hand,  and  said, 
"Which  of  you  will  take  my  horse  across  the  little 
bridge  for  me  ?    This  is  for  him." 

"  That  is  not  your  horse.  That  is  Messer  Jean 
Waldo's  horse,  and  no  one  rides  him  honestly  but 
Jean  Waldo  or  his  groom." 

This  was  the  impudent  reply  of  the  largest  boy 
of  the  group.  And  all  of  them  seemed  not  indit- 
ferent  to  his  money,  but  afraid  of  the  errand.  To 
be  found  with  a  stolen  horse,  as  Lyons  was  then 
governed,  might  cost  any  boy  his  Christmas  holi- 
day, and,  very  likely,  more. 

The  priest's  imperturbable  balance  did  not  leave 
him.  "  It  is  Jean  Waldo's  horse,  and  it  is  to  Jean 
Waldo's  stable  that  I  ask  you  to  take  him.  Do 
I  not  pay  enough?  Here  is  another  of  the 
Archbishop's  croziers."  And  he  took  out  another 
piece  of  money. 

The  bribe  was  a  temptation.  But  the  fear  of 
the  Courier  was  stronger;  and  the  second  boy 
answered  with  a  coarse  oath,  that  the  traveller 
had  better  take  his  own  horses,  and  groom  them 
too.    And  both  these  precocious  young  rascals, 

»3 


194 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


as  if  they  were  compromising  the  dignity  o! 
Lyons  by  so  long  talk  with  the  dusty  countryman, 
then  gave  a  loud  battle-howl  known  to  the  othei 
gamins  of  their  section,  and  rushed  wildly  to  the 
square  from  which  John  of  Lugio  had  just  now 
turned. 

Two  smaller  boys,  who  made  the  rest  of  the 
group,  seemed  disposed  to  follow  them,  when  the 
priest,  perhaps  because  he  must  run  some  risk, 
perhaps  because  the  purer  faces  of  these  boys 
attracted  him,  bent  down,  and  said,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  "  Could  you  take  this  horse  to  Jean 
Waldo's  4  for  the  love  of  Christ '  ?  " 

"  I  will  go  anywhere/'  said  the  brave  fellow, 
clambering  into  the  saddle,  "when  I  am  sum- 
moned 

In  His  Name." 

"  You  are  to  say,  boy,  that  he  who  was  sent  for 
*s  close  at  hand." 

"  I  am  to  say,  that  he  who  was  sent  for  is  close 
at  hand.  Farewell." 

The  boy  was  gone  ;  and  the  priest,  through  court- 
yard and  arched  ways  where  he  could  not  have 
ridden,  hastily  crossed  the  peninsula,  crossed  the 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


195 


bridge  which  spanned  the  narrower  river  of  the  two, 
and,  in  two  or  three  minutes  after  the  boy  had 
given  warning  of  his  approach,  he  met  Giulio  the 
Florentine  at  Jean  Waldo's  door. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CHRIS1MAS  EVE. 

The  master  and  his  pupil  fell  on  each  other's 
necks,  and  kissed  each  other  without  one  word. 
It  was  five  years  since  they  had  met,  and  com- 
munication by  letter  or  by  message  was  most  in- 
frequent. And  then  the  first  words  of  both  were 
for  their  patient. 

"  How  does  she  bear  herself  ? "  These  were 
the  priest's  first  words. 

"  She  is  living.  At  least  I  can  say  that.  I  do 
not  know  if  I  can  say  any  thing  more.  At  every 
hour  her  pulse  is  quicker  and  weaker,  and  her 
breathing  worse.  But  there  are  now  hardly  any 
of  the  convulsions  of  agony.  Do  you  remember 
thai  night  with  the  boatmen  at  Anse  ?  This  girl 
has  suffered  as  those  men  did  not  suffer." 

"  Does  she  know  you  ? 99 

"She  knows  no  one,  and  no  thing.  But  she 
alks  now  to  her  i  dear  mountain,'  now  to  some 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


197 


old  lame  beggar,  now  to  King  Saladin,  now  to 
her  cousin  Gabrielle." 

"  She  is  living  over  the  life  of  the  hour  before 
she  took  the  drug.  That  is  the  way  with  these 
poisons." 

These  few  words  passed  as  they  entered  and 
crossed  the  court-yard,  and  mounted  the  stairway 
to  the  poor  sufferer's  pretty  room. 

In  that  day  of  the  infancy  of  medical  science, 
the  distinctions  among  poisons  now  observed  were 
quite  unknown,  even  to  the  most  learned.  Poisons 
are  now  distinguished  as  irritants,  narcotics,  nar- 
cotic acrid,  or  septic,  according  as  they  act,  by 
one  or  another  method  of  injury  on  the  human  or^ 
ganization.  The  wild  hemlock-like  parsley,  which 
grows  abundantly  in  the  meadows  of  Southern 
France,  and  which  had  been  so  carelessly  substi 
tuted  for  some  innocent  root  by  Goodwife  Prud- 
hon,  is  one  of  the  poisons  known  as  narcotic 
acrid.  In  the  eagerness  of  Mistress  Waldo  to 
make  her  preparation  strong,  she  had  even  let  the 
powder  of  the  root  itself  remain  in  her  decoction  \ 
and  the  child,  in  her  conscientious  desire  to  do  all 
her  mother  wished,  even  because  the  medicine 


198 


IN  HIS  NAMh. 


was  so  nauseous,  had,  alas !  drunk  all  the  drugs 
of  the  preparation,  as  well  as  the  more  innocent 
liquid.  The  Florentine  would  be  called  only  an 
empiric  by  the  science  of  to-day  ;  that  is  to  say, 
only  a  person  who  acts  on  the  remembrance  of 
the  results  of  his  observations.  He  would  him- 
self have  confessed  that  he  was  little  more.  But 
his  observations  had  been  wide  and  intelligent 
Since  he  was  a  child,  the  laws  of  life  and  the 
methods  of  life  had  fascinated  him.  And  what 
he  had  seen  of  sickness  and  of  health  he  had 
noted  with  absolute  precision,  and  he  had  remem- 
bered thoroughly.  When  he  wrote  to  his  master 
that  he  suspected  that  the  women  had  mixed  one 
of  the  poisonous  mushrooms  of  the  valley  of  the 
Rhone  in  with  their  hemlock-brewing,  it  was  be- 
cause he  had  already  detected  symptoms  which 
were  not  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  mere  action 
of  the  root  which  he  had  identified  in  the  moth 
er's  stores.  These  anomalous  symptoms  had, 
through  the  day,  asserted  themselves.  And  the 
Florentine,  as  it  would  seem,  had  varied  his 
treatment  somewhat  from  that  with  which  he  be- 
gan.   None  the  less,  however,  was  the  patknl 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


199 


sinking.  The  balance  and  force  of  her  admirable 
constitution,  and  of  her  life  of  perfect  purity,  as- 
serted themselves  all  along.  But  every  symptom 
showed  that  she  had  less  strength  with  every  hour. 

John  of  Lugio  came  to  the  bedside,  and  received 
silently,  with  a  kind  bow,  the  eager  and  pro- 
foundly respectful  salutation  of  the  child's  father. 
Jean  Waldo  was  surprised  indeed.  It  seemed 
that  this  master  of  the  young  Giulio,  this  man  so 
much  hoped  for  and  longed  for  in  this  day  of 
agony  and  of  prayer,  was  one  of  those  daily  com- 
panions of  his  kinsman  Peter  Waldo,  whom  he 
had,  fifty  times,  seen  with  him  at  his  home  or  at 
his  store-house.  For  all  of  those  companions 
fean  Waldo's  contempt  had  been  even  more  bit- 
ter than  that  with  which  he  regarded  his  kinsman. 
For  he  looked  upon  these  men  as  being  the 
tempters  who  lured  the  merchant  into  the  follies 
outside  his  vocation.  And  now,  as  God  ordered, 
it  was  this  very  man  for  whom  he  had  sent  his 
servants  and  his  horses,  for  whom  he  had  defied 
the  law  of  Lyons,  and  for  whose  coming  he  had 
been  hoping  and  praying  all  that  day! 

Madame  Waldo  rose  from  her  chair  at  the  bed 


200 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


side,  and  yielded  it  to  the  stranger,  with  a  re- 
spectful courtesy.  But  for  a  minute  no  word  was 
spoken  in  the  room. 

The  new  physician  did  not  put  his  chilled  hand 
upon  pulse  or  forehead.  He  bent  his  ear  close 
enough  above  the  child's  heart  to  listen  to  her 
faint  breathing.  He  tried  to  catch  the  odor  of 
her  breath  as  it  passed  from  her  nostrils.  He 
brought  the  candle  closer  to  her  that  he  might 
note  the  complexion  of  her  face ;  and  even  threw 
it  upon  the  open  and  rather  rigid  eye,  which 
looked  upon  him  so  unnaturally. 

Then  he  turned  to  his  pupil,  and  asked  in  detail 
what  he  had  tried  to  do  for  her. 

The  reader  knows  something  of  this  already. 
Madame  Waldo  and  her  neighbors  knew  enough 
of  the  not  mistaken  medical  practice  of  their  time, 
to  give  to  the  suffering  child  full  potions  of  oil 
stirred  in  with  hot  water  as  soon  as  they  found 
that  she  had  swallowed  poison.  Nor  had  they 
been  unsuccessful  in  relieving  her  stomach  from 
much  of  the  decoction,  and  from  a  part  even  of 
the  dregs  of  the  draught  which  she  had  taken. 
Bu^  as  Giulio  had  found,  the  root  and  whatevei 


[N  HIS  NAME. 


20 1 


was  mingled  with  it  had  so  long  lodged  themselves 
in  her  system,  that  the  poison  was,  in  a  measure, 
absorbed  by  her  organization  \  and  the  convul- 
sions which  made  her  father  and  mother  so  mis- 
erable were  the  proof  that  they  had  not  succeeded 
in  removing  all  or  most  of  the  cause  of  her  suf 
fering. 

"  The  convulsions  never  lasted  long,"  said  the 
young  man  to  his  master,  "but  they  left  her 
deadly  pale,  her  face  all  haggard,  and  they  came 
again  as  if  we  did  nothing.  Once  and  again  I 
found  it  hard  to  open  her  mouth,  so  firmly  set 
were  her  jaws.  I  have  been  all  day  long  keeping 
up  this  warmth  and  rubbing,  on  which  the  women 
had  begun.  Her  pulse  seemed  to  me  so  excep- 
tional, that  at  noon,  and  again  three  hours  after 
noon,  I  ventured  to  draw  blood,  which  we  have 
saved  for  you  to  see.  It  is  here.  And  it  is  now 
six  times,  at  intervals  of  an  hour  perhaps,  that  1 
have  given  to  her  this  boneblack  which  I  had 
ready.  I  made  it  myself  by  the  burning  of  sea- 
gulls'* bones,  and  I  know  that  it  is  unmixed,  and 
that  there  is  no  vegetable  in  it.  But  whether  it 
has  absorbed  any  thing,  I  dare  not  say.    I  hav# 


202 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


hesitated  about  giving  wine  to  one  from  whom  1 
was  drawing  blood.  But  when  I  could  hardly 
find  her  pulse,  and  could  hardly  see  her  breath 
upon  the  mirror,  I  gave  her  Bourdeaux  wine,  such 
as  you  see  here,  and  it  seemed  to  me  to  do  no 
harm.  I  renewed  this  twice,  therefore.  And  1 
have  given  her  also,  three  or  four  times  to-day, 
this  camomile,  which  her  mother  has  served  for 
her." 

The  master  nodded  sympathetically,  in  ap- 
proval or  in  assent,  and,  when  his  pupil  showed  to 
him  the  camomile,  drained  the  bowl  himself.  He 
returned  it  to  Dame  Waldo  with  a  smile,  the  first 
smile  which  any  one  had  seen  in  that  room  for 
twenty-four  hours,  and  the  first  indication  which 
he  had  given  that  he  was  not  wholly  discouraged 
by  the  situation.  The  mother  at  least  was  en- 
couraged. The  new  physician  had  thus  entered  on 
his  work  at  that  point,  which  is  by  no  means  the 
least  important  of  a  physician's  duties,  —  the  care 
of  the  family  of  his  patient.  The  good  woman  sud- 
denly recollected  that  a  man  who  had  ridden 
fifteen  leagues  on  a  winter  day  might  be  in  want 
ot  some  refreshment,  and.  only  delighted  that 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


203 


there  was  any  thing  that  she  could  do,  retired 
instantly  to  her  maids  and  her  kitchen,  to  do  what 
she  then  reflected  she  should  have  done  before> 
and  take  order  for  his  evening  meal. 

John  of  Lugio  himself  crossed  to  the  open  fire- 
place, and  sat  opposite  the  blaze,  warming  his  cold 
hands  over  the  embers.  He  asked  the  young 
Florentine  one  and  another  questions,  called  him- 
self for  the  barks  and  leaves  which  the  women 
had  used  in  their  pharmacy,  and  which  still  lay 
on  broad  salvers  in  a  little  antechamber.  So  soon 
as  he  was  sure  that  his  cold  touch  would  not  chill 
the.  girl,  he  went  back  to  the  bedside,  assured 
himself  as  to  the  circulation  in  her  feet  and  hands, 
listened  at  the  beating  of  the  heart,  and  noted  the 
wiry  pulsation  of  her  wrists,  and  then  with  his  own 
hand  poured  into  the  silver  cup  five  times  as 
much  of  the  wine  of  Bordeaux  as  his  pupil  had 
dared  to  use.  He  then  administered  the  whole 
draught  to  the  girl,  with  a  practised  hand,  and  a 
sort  of  command  in  his  manner  which,  even  in  hei 
torpor,  she  obeyed. 

"Do  not  disturb  her.  Let  her  lie,"  he  said 
And  they  both  withdrew  again  to  the  fire 


204 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


"You  relieve  me  more  than  I  can  say,"  said 
the  young  man.  I  have  been  haunted  all  the 
afternoon  by  the  remembrance  of  Gerbert's  ax- 
iom "  — 

"Which  you  have  had  the  good  sense  to  violate. 
Perhaps  the  child  owes  her  life  to  your  rebellion. 
The  Pope  Sylvester  has  learned  something  since 
he  wrote  out  his  axioms,  and  you  and  I  must  not 
be  frightened  by  dead  popes  more  than  by  living 
ones.*  Your  stimulant  has  done  no  harm  that  I 
can  see.  And  if  she  is  to  rally,  we  must  help  her 
if  we  can.  Let  me  see  your  hamper  there,  and 
let  us  be  ready  to  follow  up  your  treatment  with 
some  elixir  a  little  more  prompt  than  my  good 
friend's  sour  wines." 

The  blackamoor  drew  to  the  side  of  the  fire- 
place a  small  table,  and  with  his  master's  help 
brought  from  the  basket  a  varied  collection  of 
flasks  and  bottles,  which  he  set  in  order  on  it. 
The  mastei  looked  at  the  labels  on  these  in  their 
order,  —  sometimes  unstopped  a  flask  and  poured 
a  few  drops  into  the  hollow  of  his  left  hand,  and 

*  Gerbert,  distinguished  as  a  French  naturalist,  was 
afterwards  Pope  Sylvester  the  Second. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


205 


t  **ted  them,  set  aside  two  of  the  phials,  and  then 
be  \it  the  black  repack  the  others,  and  take  them 
all  away.  Then  turning  to  Giulio  with  a  renewal 
ot  the  sweet  and  half-quizzical  smile,  which  had 
lighted  up  his  face  when  he  drank  off  the  potion 
of  camomile,  he  said,  "  Have  you  gone  back  into 
the  Dark  Ages  ?  I  have  not  seen  such  medicines 
since  our  great  Bernhard  died,  because  he  had  no 
better.  I  should  think  we  were  Adam  and  Eve 
in  paradise,  and  that  Adam  drank  what  Eve 
brewed.,, 

"  Dear  master,"  said  the  Florentine,  "  remem- 
ber where  you  are,  and,  first  of  all,  speak  lower. 
We  are  in  the  Dark  Ages  again,  and,  under  the 
shadow  of  this  cathedral,  we  are  in  the  darkest 
centre  of  the  Dark  Ages.  Why,  my  dear  master, 
to  speak  of  Averroes  in  any  presence  where  one 
should  be  reported  to  the  Courier,  would  be  to 
sign  the  order  for  one's  own  exile  to  your  moun- 
tains. And,  though  I  might  speak  of  Abulcasis, 
it  is  because  no  one  in  Lyons  but  yourself  has 
ever  heard  of  his  name.  No  :  we  are  to  live  and 
die  by  Eve's  simples,  exactly  as  we  are  to  be 
saved  or  to  be  damned  by  Pope  Alexander's 


206 


TN  HIS  NAME. 


theology.  1  have  hoarded  my  essences  and  elix 
lrs,  drop  by  drop.  And  the  little  phials  you  have 
set  aside  here  are  all  that  are  left  of  the  stores  I 
rescued  the  day  when  the  tipstaves  of  the  Viguier 
emptied  your  work-room  into  the  street.  I  would 
fain  have  carried  away  your  precious  alembics, 
but  the  Archbishop's  men  were  before  me,  and 
they  all  went  to  the  palace." 

"To  the  palace?" 
I  suppose  they  went  to  the  palace  ;  perhaps 
they  went  to  the  dung-heap ;  perhaps  they  went 
as  a  present  to  Muley  Pasha.  There  is  not  a 
man  in  Lyons  outside  this  room  who  knows  their 
inestimable  worth,  nor  how  to  handle  them  ! " 

"  To  the  palace  ? "  said  Father  John  again, 
quite  regardless  of  his  pupil's  last  words,  and 
almost  as  if  he  were  dreaming  himself.  "  To  the 
palace  !  yes  ;  to  the  palace  !  "  Then  he  turned 
to  Madame  Gabrielle,  who  came  in  gently,  and 
placed  on  the  disencumbered  table  at  his  side  a 
salver  covered  with  a  napkin  and  crowded  with 
warm  drinks,  savory  soup,  and  meat  hot  from  hei 
broiler.  "  I  hope  your  worship  is  not  faint/  she 
said 


iN  HIS  NAME. 


207 


"  My  worship  is  better,"  he  answered,  with  that 
same  tendei  smile,  "  because  I  think  that  your  dar- 
ling here  is  no  worse.  Such  prayers  as  you  have 
offered  for  her,  and,  I  think,  such  prayers  as  she 
has  offered  for  herself,  are  profiting  her  well,  and 
such  care  as  you  and  my  friend  have  given  her 
this  day  are  fit  companions  to  such  prayers."  As 
he  spoke  these  gentle  words,  none  the  less  did  the 
physician-priest  turn  to  the  potage  which  the  good 
dame  had  prepared  for  him.  And  he  ate  it  wifth 
the  appetite  not  of  a  scholastic,  but  of  a  hunter 
or  a  soldier.  As  he  ate,  he  went  on  in  his  talk 
with  the  Florentine,  wholly  regardless  of  the  pres- 
ence of  the  mother,  who  stood  with  her  napkin  on 
her  arm  as  if  she  were  a  servant,  noting  every 
spoonful  and  every  salt-grain  of  his  hasty  repast. 

"  To  the  palace,  you  say,  —  to  the  palaice  !  Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me,  Giulio,  that  there  is  nobody 
here  who  cares  for  the  Eternal  Truth  of  things  ? 
Is  there  nobody  who  cares  for  the  way  God  made 
the  world  ?  Where  are  all  the  old  set,  —  Lambert, 
Etienne,  Suger,  Montereau,  Marly,  and  Le  La« 
boureur,  —  where  are  they  all  ?  And  your  friends, 
the  '  sacred  five/  as  you  youngsters  called  your- 


208 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


selves?  Alas!  I  answer  my  own  question.  Eti' 
enne  and  Marley  were  dead  before  the  bad  rimes 
came.  Lambert  and  Suger  are  in  Bohemia  with 
our  friend,  because  these  people  here  know  not 
The  Truth,  and  The  Truth  knows  them  not. 
Montereau,  they  told  me,  went  to  the  Holy  War, 
He  will  come  back,  knowing  something  more,  per- 
haps. Would  God  they  all  had  gone  thither  with 
as  noble  purpose  !  " 

"And  Le  Laboureur,  sir,  has  burned  his  books 
and  broken  his  instruments,  and  joined  th<j  Bene- 
dictines yonder  in  Cornillon.  Of  the  sajred  five 
you  asked  for,  I  only  am  left  to  tell  you.  George 
is  under  the  Mediterranean  Hugh  is  with  the 
Emperor ;  the  others  are  at  Acre,  I  hope,  —  they 
are  in  the  East,  as  I  had  well  nigh  been  myself 
this  clay. 

"  No,  my  master  ;  Lyons,  I  tell  you,  is  the  dark- 
est spot  of  the  Dark  Ages." 

The  nurse  at  the  bedside  spoke  at  this  moment, 
and  the  priest  cro  ssed  to  his  patient.  The  child 
was  more  restive,  and  her  stomach  seemed  likely  to 
reject  the  draugh'.  which  he  had  given  her.  He 
gave  to  her  mother  some  direction  as  to  her  po 


IN  HIS  NAME.  209 

sition,  and  the  clothes  upon  her  stomach,  and, 
with  quite  another  tone,  came  back  to  his  pupil. 
"  Give  her  thirty  drops  from  this,"  he  said,  giving 
to  him  one  of  the  reserved  phials  upon  the  table, 
"  but  it  is  a  sin  that  we  must  poison  her  with  sour 
wine,  when  we  want  to  give  her  an  elixir.  Do 
you  tell  me  that  if  love  will  not  give  us  two  hun- 
dred drops  of  the  elixir  of  the  formula  of  Arnauld 
or  Abulcasis,  money  will  not  do  it  ?  Has  no  man 
flask,  phial,  jar,  or  nutshell  filled  with  it?" 

"  No  one,  my  master,  since  the  tipstaves  broke 
into  the  warehouse  of  Simon  Cimchi,  and  poured 
his  precious  elixirs  into  the  gutter." 

"  No  one,"  repeated  the  other,  slowly  ;  "  no  one 
except  —  in  the  palace.  The  Archbishop  knows 
his  right  hand  from  his  left,  and  knows  an  elixir 
from  a  decoction.  He  has  gone  on  the  fool's 
errand.    Who  is  in  his  place  ?  " 

The  Florentine  was  not  expert  in  ecclesiastical 
matters,  and  called  Jean  Waldo  himself,  who  had 
sat  silently  at  his  daughter's  bedside,  to  put  to 
him  his  master's  question:  "Who  holds  the  pri- 
macy of  Lyons  in  the  Archbishop's  absence  in  the 
East  ? "    Giulio  would  have  said  that  morning 

r4 


2IO 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


that,  whether  it  were  one  priest  or  another,  it 
mattered  nothing  to  him. 

Jean  Waldo  replied  respectfully,  that  Father 
Stephen  of  St.  Amour  was  the  dean  of  the  Chap- 
ter, and  acted  as  the  Archbishop's  substitute.  But 
he  said  that  he  was  now  absent  in  Burgundy  on  a 
visit  with  his  family,  and  that  the  senior  canon, 
one  Father  William,  held  his  place.  Jean  Waldo 
knew  that  it  was  he  who  took  the  Archbishop's 
place  in  the  high  solemnity  of  Christmas. 

"  William  of  St.  Bonnet,  perhaps ;  William  of 
Roux,  perhaps ;  William  of  Chapinel,  perhaps ; 
William  of  Cologne,  perhaps.  I  remember  them 
all  j  and  there  is  not  one  of  them  all  but  will  know 
my  sign-manual.  Giulio,  will  you  take  a  message  to 
this  locum  tenentem,  this  archbishop  pro  tempore  fx 
And  as  he  spoke  he  wrote  rapidly  on  his  tablets 

"You  would  not  dare,  my  master? " 

"This  child's  stomach  will  not  bear  your  watery 
wine.  But  all  the  child  wants  is  as  much  stimu- 
lant within  as  you  have  been  giving  to  her  skin 
without.  In  the  Archbishop's  medicine-chest  are 
doubtless  my  precious  elixirs,  and  Cimchi's,  I  do 
not  doubt,  as  well.    If  the  Archbishop  himself 


IN  HIS  JVAJfE. 


211 


were  here,  there  would  be  no  danger.  He  can 
handle  an  alembic  as  well  as  I  can. 

"  As  for  daring,  boy,  to  the  child  of  God  there 
is  no  danger.  I  came  here  'for  the  love  of  Christ.' 
4  For  the  love  of  Christ 1  I  shall  bid  this  servant 
of  Christ  send  to  this  child  this  elixir.  You  will 
not  refuse  to  go,  he  will  not  refuse  to  give ;  if, 
then,  the  Lord  pleases  to  give  His  blessing  to  oui 
stumbling  endeavor,  all  will  be  well.  At  the 
least,  we  will  do  our  best,  and  make  our  endeavoi 

In  His  Name." 

The  Florentine  said  no  other  word,  bui  rose, 
bowed,  and  took  the  parchment.  There  was  writ- 
ten there  this  missive  :  — 

For  the  Love  of  Christ. 

To  my  Brother  William,  Canon  in  the  Cathe- 
dral of  St.  John  : 

I  write  these  words  by  the  bedside  of  one  of  your 
flock,  the  child  F  elide  Waldo.  The  child  is  dying 
because  we  need  for  her  the  Elixir  of  Cordova,  of  the 
second  formula  of  Abulcasis.  Send  it  to  us,  nry 
brother, 

In  His  Name 
Your  brother  in  Christ, 

[ean  of  Lugio 


212 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


And  at  the  bottom  of  the  letter  was  the  rougti 
design  of  the  Cross  of  Malta. 


Giulio  the  Florentine  took  the  letter,  crossed 
the  court-yard,  and,  as  he  went,  threw  over  him  the 
black  student's  gown,  which  he  had  left  in  the 
hall  as  he  came  up  to  the  ministration  which 
had  held  him  here  all  day.  He  was  amazed  him- 
self at  the  confidence  with  which  he  undertook  an 
office  so  strange.  Had  anybody  told  him  he  was 
to  go  on  such  an  errand,  he  would  have  said  that 
the  errand  was  absurd,  and  that  success  in  it  was 
Impossible.  But  now  that  he  had  it  to  do,  the 
confidence  of  his  master  gave  him  confidence,  — 
nay,  even  the  absolute  necessity  of  success  made 
him  sure  that  he  should  not  fail.  It  was  :lear 
that  the  master  thought  that  unless  this  Elixir  of 
Cordova  could  be  found,  and  found  soon,  their 
battle  was  lost ;  that  the  child  would  not  rally  un- 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


2*3 


less  some  stimulant  could  be  used,  more  precisely 
adjusted  and  more  highly  concentrated  than  any 
he  had  had  at  command. 

On  the  strangest  duty,  therefore,  as  he  knew, 
that  ever  he  had  been  engaged  in,  the  student  left 
the  weaver's  court-yard  ;  but  still  with  the  cer- 
tainty of  success.  A  few  steps  uphill,  and  he  was 
within  sound  of  the  evening  chant,  as  in  the  newly 
finished  nave  of  the  cathedral  church  of  St.  Join, 
the  whole  chapter  and  the  great  company  of  sub 
ordinate  priests  were  engaged  in  the  first  of  the 
series  of  services  of  the  great  festival.  The  nave 
itself,  the  porch,  and  the  street  in  front,  were 
crowded  with  people  ;  and  the  young  man  saw  that 
entrance  there  was  impossible.  He  passed  round 
the  church  to  a  little  side  portal,  which  gave  en- 
trance to  a  vestry  which  adjoined  the  chancel,  and 
there  he  pressed  for  entrance. 

He  did  not  find  it  difficult  to  enter  the  room 
itself.  For,  in  the  general  enthusiasm  and  general 
confusion,  all  the  minor  clergy,  and  all  the  attend- 
ants and  sacristans,  of  one  tribe  and  another,  had 
passed  up  to  door-ways  and  other  openings,  where 
they  could  see  the  pageant  within,  — •  and  the  Flor 


214 


FN  HIS  NAME. 


entine  soon  found  himself  in  the  back  of  this 
throng,  one  of  a  crowd  of  half-official  spectators. 
He  chose  his  man  instantly  among  these,  and 
chose,  as  it  proved,  not  unwisely.  He  whispered 
to  a  tall  priest,  who  stood  looking  over  the  heads 
of  the  crowd  in  front,  and  spoke  to  him  in  that 
dialect  of  rustic  Latin  which  was  already  passing 
into  Italian  in  his  own  country.  It  proved  that 
the  priest  was,  as  he  suspected  he  was,  his  country- 
man, and  understood  him. 

"  I  need,"  whispered  Giulio,  "  to  speak,  a*  this 
moment,  to  his  reverence  the  Dean." 

"  Impossible !  "  said  the  other,  amazed  at  his 
presumption  ;  "  you  see  it  is  impossible.  Yonder 
is  the  dean  in  the  archbishop's  chair.  A  moment 
more  and  he  will  advance  to  the  Eagle." 

"  Apud  homines  hoc  impossibile  est ;  apud 
Deum  autem  omnia  possibilia  sunt,"  replied  the 
bold  Florentine,  still  in  a  whisper.  "  It  is  impos- 
sible with  men  ;  but  with  God  all  things  are  pos- 
sible." The  good-natured  priest  turned  with 
surprise,  to  see  what  man  he  was  who  quoted 
Scripture  so  happily  and  reverently. 

"  I  tell  you,  my  friend,"  persisted  Giulio,  eagerly 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


213 


"  I  tell  you  I  have  that  for  the  Canon  William  to 
see  which  is  life  and  death,  —  perhaps  for  him, 
for  aught  I  know,  —  certainly  for  others.  He 
will  not  thank  the  man  who  keeps  me  away  from 
him  !  " 

"  Who  keeps  thee  away  !  "  said  the  other,  almost 
with  scorn.  "  Enter  if  you  can.  You  see  it  is 
impossible,  at  least  for  you  and  me.  Hush,  now, 
hush,  you  see  he  is  kneeling  at  the  Eagle." 

The  Eagle  was  the  bronze  Eagle,  on  whose  out- 
stretched wings  lay  the  beautiful  missal-book, 
from  which  the  senior  canon,  in  place  of  the 
dean  and  the  archbishop,  was  about  to  read  his 
part  in  the  service.  With  a  clear  and  earnest 
voice  he  began. 

"  '  For  the  love  of  Christ/  my  friend,"  said  Giulio, 
speaking  almost  aloud  to  his  companion,  "  let  us 
press  in  together.  We  two  can  reach  his  Rev- 
erence with  this  missive.  What  is  there  that 
two  of  us  cannot  do  if  we  attempt  it 

In  His  Name? 

The  eagerness  with  which  he  spoke,  in  truti^ 
and  the  invocation  which  he  used,  swept  the  othei 


216 


AV  H/S  NAME. 


away.  Scarcely  knowing  what  he  dia.  scarcely 
knowing  that  he  exercised  authority  upon  those 
that  stood  around,  the  Father  touched  one  and 
another  of  them  with  command,  as  if  he  also  had 
a  part  in  the  appointed  service,  —  as,  indeed,  he 
had,  if  ever  any  man  had  special  part  in  sacred 
rkual.  So  decided  was  his  manner,  that  those  in 
front  of  him  instinctively  obeyed.  To  his  own 
surprise,  and  to  Giulio's  indeed,  they  were  stand- 
ing, in  a  moment  more,  in  the  front  rank  of  the 
crowd  of  clergy  who  were  looking  in  reverently 
upon  the  solemnity.  The  Florentine,  at  the  in- 
stant, was  inspired.  One  of  those  great  impulses 
seized  him  which  do  not  often  come  to  a  man 
in  a  lifetime,  —  when  he  is  swept  away  by  a  Life 
and  Power  larger  than  his  own,  and  acts  without 
fear  or  hesitation,  though  on  a  stage  which  he  has 
never  trodden  before,  and  in  a  scene  to  which  he 
has  never  looked  forward.  Taking  his  unknown 
guide  by  the  hand,  Giulio  boldly  walked  across 
the  brilliant  chancel  in  face  of  the  immense  as- 
sembly, passing  confidently  among  the  kneeling 
priests,  who  were  in  their  several  places,  till  he 
came  to  the  Eagle,  and  to  the  side  of  the  Aicb 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


217 


canon  William  as  he  knelt  there.  The  priest 
instinctively  fell  on  his  knees  at  one  side,  while 
the  student  knelt  on  the  other.  To  the  clergy, 
each  in  his  appointed  place,  this  movement  was 
of  course  inexplicable,  and  it  was  a  surprise.  To 
the  great  body  of  the  assembly,  however,  it  was 
equally  inexplicable  ;  but  it  was  no  surprise.  To 
them  it  was  only  a  part  of  the  great  pageant,  of 
which  all  the  solemnity  impressed  and  awed  them, 
while  they  did  not  pretend  to  know  the  purpose  of 
its  several  details. 

The  acting  archbishop  himself  was  not  aware 
of  the  neighborhood  of  these  two  new-comers. 
Completely  carried  away  by  the  spirit  of  the  ser- 
vice in  which  he  was  engaged,  scarcely  conscious 
of  the  presence  of  any  of  those  around  him,  simply 
eager  to  carry  to  the  multitude  before  him  the  true 
sense  of  the  Scripture  he  was  reading,  and  in  his 
heart  praying  all  the  time  for  Divine  help  that  he 
might  so  render  those  sacred  words  that,  even  in 
this  ancient  Latin,  these  people  might,  in  a  meas- 
ure, understand  their  import,  the  good  Father 
passed  from  point  to  point  of  the  lesson,  and  only 
paused  for  the  interludes  which  had  been  ar 


218 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


ranged  to  be  played  on  the  great  organ,  whose 
notes  in  this  new-built  cathedral  were  still  a 
novelty.  The  priest  on  one  side,  and  the  Floren- 
tine on  the  other,  offered  no  interruption  to  his 
sacred  service. 

But,  in  a  moment,  the  prelate  had  finished  his 
reading,  and  the  "organists  of  the  Hallelujah," 
four  priests  who  sang,  in  parts,  a  portion  of  the 
mass  arranged  for  them,  took  up  their  service.  As 
the  prelate,  awed  by  the  solemnity  of  his  own 
words,  lifted  his  head  from  the  bent  attitude  in 
which  he  had  been  reading,  the  Florentine  touched 
him  lightly  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  to  him  in 
Latin  :  — 

"  It  is  '  for  the  love  of  Christ '  that  I  am  here 
and  speak  to  you.  A  dying  girl  needs  your  help, 
and  I  am  bidden  to  come  to  call  you 

In  His  Name." 

There  was  not  a  priest  of  the  lesser  degree  in 
the  great  circle  around  but  was  chafing  with  indig- 
nation and  amazement  as  he  witnessed  the  utterly 
unauthorized  intrusion  which  had  been  made  in 
the  very  crisis  of  the  great  solemnity.     But  to 


IN  HIS  NAME 


William,  who  was  the  central  officer  in  it  all,  whose 
whole  heart  was  glowing  with  one  eager  wish  that 
this  people  might  understand  how  a  child  born  in 
a  manger  might  yet  be  the  Prince  of  Peace,  how 
the  Lord  of  lords  and  King  of  kings  might  yet 
minister  in  the  humblest  offices,  it  seemed  in  this 
interruption  as  if  the  Holy  Spirit  had  sent  the  im- 
mediate present  answer  to  his  yearning  prayer ; 
and  when,  in  the  language  of  Holy  Writ  itself, 
with  the  great  invocation  which  had  worked  all 
miracles  from  the  beginning,  this  young  man  spoke 
to  him,  he  answered  immediately,  — 

*  Ecce  adsum  Domihe  ;  "  and,  to  the  Florentine 
he  added,  "  quo  ducas  sequar,"  —  "  Lord,  I  am 
here ;  where  thou  leadest,  I  will  follow."  At 
the  moment,  seeing  the  priest  Alexander  at  his 
other  side,  he  counted  his  presence  also  as  a  part 
of  the  vision  or  miracle  which  surrounded  him  ; 
he  touched  him,  in  turn,  and  pointed  to  him  the 
place  of  the  reading  on  the  open  missal-book  on 
the  Eagle ;  intimated  to  him  that  he  was  to  go  on 
with  the  service  when  the  organists  of  the  Halle- 
lujah were  done,  and  so  followed  the  Florentine 
out  from  the  brilliant,  chancel,  threading  his  way 


Z20 


[N  HIS  NAME, 


among  the  kneeling  ranks  of  the  amazed  clergy 
and  came  with  him  into  the  narrow  crypts 
of  the  darker  vestry.  A  crowd  of  officers  of  the 
church,  from  sacristans  up  to  canons,  of  those 
waiting  at  the  doors,  turned  and  pressed  around 
them  ;  but  their  chief  waved  them  back  to  the 
chancel.  "  Leave  me  alone  with  the  messenger/5 
he  said,  "  and  let  the  service  of  Noel  not  be 
abated,  not  in  one  syllable  of  the  office." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  Florentine,  and  almost 
whispered  to  him,  "  Adsum  et  sequar," —  "I  am 
here,  and  I  will  follow." 

"  Your  Grace  need  not  follow,"  said  the  young 
man,  who  was  only  surprised  that  he  was  not  sur- 
prised at  all  that  was  passing.  The  truth  is,  that 
any  actor  in  one  of  those  waves  of  inspiration,  in 
which  true  men  are  buoyed  up  together  by  the 
Holy  Spirit,  only  feels  that  the  whole  is  entirely 
what  must  be  and  should  be  ;  and  his  only  wonder 
is  that  such  strength  and  simplicity  are  not  the  law 
of  all  life.  "Your  Grace  need  not  follow.  I( 
your  Grace  will  read  this  message,  that  is  all. 

Father  William  glanced  at  the  scrap  of  vellura 
which  the  young  man  gave  him,  looked  from  the 


J  A  HIS  NAME. 


221 


top  to  the  bottom,  saw  the  invocation,  "  For  the 
love  of  Christ,"  and  the  appeal,  "  in  his  name;" 
saw  the  signature  of  the  old  companion  of  his  no- 
vitiate,  John  of  Lugio,  and  saw  the  Cross  of  Malta, 
the  significance  of  which  among  the  initiates  he 
well  knew.  The  awe  which  had  controlled  him 
from  the  beginning  of  the  appeal  made  to  him 
was  not  diminished  as  his  eye  caught  these  words. 
He  still  felt  that  he  was  under  Sacred  Guidance, 
and  read  the  letter  once  and  again. 

"  Oh,  my  brother !  "  he  said,  then,  with  a  sad 
sigh,  "  our  brother  asks  what  I  am  powerless  to 
give.  If  our  brother  Stephen  of  St.  Amour  were 
here,  he  understands  the  Archbishop's  alembics 
and  elixirs.  Even  William  of  Cologne  has  some 
novice's  notion  of  them.  But  I,  —  I  am  but  a 
child,  —  nor  do  I  even  dare  open  the  cloister-room 
where  these  things  are,  lest  I  wake  spirits  that  I 
cannot  lay." 

"  If  your  Worship  will  pardon  me,  I  have 
studied  of  these  elixirs  with  the  very  men  with 
whom  the  Archbishop  has  studied."  In  that  sa- 
cred presence,  the  Florentine  would  not  name 
paynim  hounds  like  Abulcasis  and  Averroes.    4  it 


222 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


vour  Grace  will  only  lead  to  the  cloister,  I  will  de- 
cide '  Ecce  adsum,  quo  ducas  sequar,' "  citing 
his  own  words  of  the  moment  before. 

"  As  the  Lord  will.  '  For  the  love  of  Christ/  I 
do  what  you  bid  me.  And  service  cannot  be  mis- 
taken which  is  rendered  in  his  name." 

So  saying,  the  prelate  took  from  the  sconce  one 
of  the  large  consecrated  candlts,  which  furnished 
the  light  to  the  dim  vestry,  and  bade  the  student 
take  the  other.  They  left  the  room  in  darkness, 
and,  with  these  strange  flaring  torches,  they  crossed 
the  court-yard,  to  the  amazement  of  the  grooms  in 
attendance,  and  entered  by  the  Archbishop's  pri- 
vate door  to  the  corridor  of  his  apartments,  to  the 
equal  astonishment  of  the  porter  on  duty  there. 
The  palace  of  the  Archbishop  was  one  of  the 
grandest  and  most  beautiful  buildings  then  in 
France.  As  the  young  man  stood  in  the  magniB 
cent  hall  of  entrance,  he  wondered  at  the  richness 
and  beauty  of  its  sculptures.  After  a  moment's 
pause  the  Canon  joined  him  again,  coming  out 
from  his  chamber  with  a  heavy  bunch  of  keys3 
and  led  the  way  to  the  corridor  to  the  very  end. 
He  quickly  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  said  to 
Giulio,  with  a  sweet  smile,  — 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


223 


'To  this  moment,  I  have  believed  that  1  might 
be  in  a  dream  —  nesciebam  rem  veram  esse  quod 
fiebat  per  angelum,  sed  putabam  me  visum  vi 
dere."* 

"  We  are  both  guided  by  angels  and  archangels 
whom  we  cannot  see,  my  lord."  This  was  the 
young  man's  reverent  reply. 

The  heavy  door  of  the  Archbishop's  private 
laboratory  swung  open.  The  Canon  himself,  who 
had  unlocked  it,  had  never  entered  the  chamber 
before.  And  the  man  of  science  was  himselt 
surprised,  when  he  saw  how  extensive  was  the 
apparatus  of  mystery  and  of  alchemy  which  was 
collected  there.  He  recognized  one  and  another 
implement  of  infant  chemistry,  which  he  had  him- 
self used  in  his  master's  workshop,  and  which  the 
Archbishop  had  rescued  from  destruction  when 
his  master  fled.  He  saw  also  in  an  instant  that, 
as  he  had  supposed,  the  stores  of  the  Jew  Cimchi 
had  found  their  way  to  this  collection.  The  place 
itself,  with  its  collection  of  unknown  machines, 
had  a  little  of  the  look  of  that  curiosity-shop,  rep- 

*  "  Nor  deemed  that  it  was  true  which  was  spoken  by 
tl  e  angel,  but  thought  I  saw  a  vision." 


224 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


resented  by  Albert  Durer,  some  centuries  later 
in  which  his  weird  Melancholia  sits  brooding.  In 
the  Archbishop's  den,  however,  neither  prelate 
nor  physician  had  time  to  lose.  The  young  man 
cast  his  eye  around,  and,  seeing  an  exquisite- cabi- 
net of  Venetian  inlaid  work  on  one  side,  asked  his 
companion  if  there  were  no  Venetian  keys  upon 
the  chain  which  he  had  brought  with  him.  A  few 
experiments  threw  open  the  little  case,  and  a 
series  of  choice  phials  —  some  of  silver,  some  of 
glass  —  stood  before  them  both,  which  the  younger 
of  the  two  visitors  recognized  at  once  as  being 
of  the  most  careful  Saracen  workmanship  of  the 
time. 

He  brought  his  tall  candle  to  the  little  shelves, 
and  read  the  names  marked  upon  the  several  elix- 
irs, tinctures,  spirits,  and  "  humors."  To  his  eye, 
some  of  the  flasks  before  him  were  worth  a  king's 
ransom.  But  at  this  moment  they  had  not  kings 
to  ransom,  but  Felicie  to  save.  And  in  an  in- 
stant he  showed  to  the  prelate  what  they  wanted. 
Marked  first  in  Arabic,  and  beneath  in  Latin,  was 
the  <f  Elixir  of  Cordova,  of  the  second  formula  of 
Abulcasis." 


IN  HIS  NAMIl. 


22S 


'A  Your  Reverence  sees  that  here  is  what  we 
oeed.    Am  I  to  take  the  flask  to  the  child  ? " 

The  prelate  bent,  and  read  the  second  inscrip- 
tion. "  It  is  in  his  Grace's  own  handwriting/'  he 
said.  "  How  strange  that  these  Saracens  whom 
we  are  riding  down  in  the  field  are  those  who  send 
to  us  the  elixirs  of  life  in  our  homes.  Let  it  be 
as  the  Lord  wills.  If  my  lord  did  not  deem  the 
elixir  precious,  he  wouid  not  have  saved  it.  But 
it  is  written  that  the  paynim  also  shall  serve. 
'  Ask  of  me,  and  I  will  give  thee  the  heathen  for 
thine  inheritance. '  Take  what  is  needed,  my 
son,  1  for  the  love  of  Christ/  and  may  the  Holy 
Mother  give  the  blessing  which  is  promised  to 
those  who  serve 

In  His  Name." 

Unconsciously  the  Father  had  twice  used  the 
first  and  last  passwords  of  the  initiated  "Poor  Men 
of  Lyons."  The  proficient  started,  as  he  did  before, 
when  he  heard  the  two  phrases  together,  and  felt, 
indeed,  that  the  true  minister  before  him  had 
used  them  wisely  and  well.  The  permission  once 
given  him,  he  took  the  precious  flask  from  its  corn 


226 


IN  HIS  NAM&. 


panions.  The  prelate  locked  the  cabinet,  locked 
the  door  of  the  cell,  and  then  offered  to  go  with 
the  other  to  the  child's  bedside.  "  I  will  adminis- 
ter extreme  unction,  if  you  think  her  case  so  des- 
perate." 

"  My  Father,  the  child  is  unconscious.  But, 
at  the  least,  her  breath  will  not  pass  away  for 
hours.  You  can  be  ill  spared  from  yonder  service. 
If,  when  it  is  over,  she  needs  your  care,  you  shall 
find  me  waiting  at  the  door  of  the  chapel." 

And  so  they  parted :  the  Florentine  with  the 
priest's  blessing,  the  prelate  with  the  other's 
thanks.  With  his  great  candle  flaring,  he  crossed 
the  street  in  the  darkness,  passed  rapidly  up  to 
the  great  cathedral  door,  and  bade  the  throng 
open,  that  he  might  enter.  At  the  sight  of  the 
great  chief  of  the  whole  solemnity  in  his  full  robes 
of  ceremony,  the  crowd  in  street  and  porch  rolled 
back  reverently,  and  the  holy  man,  still  wondering 
at  all  which  had  passed,  walked  up  the  nave, 
wheie  all  made  room  for  him,  bearing  his  flam- 
beau still,  and  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream.  To  the 
multitude  this  seemed  a  part  of  the  ceremonial. 
To  the  canons  and  the  other  clergy  it  was  all 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


22J 


amazing.    He  came  to  the  altar  as  his  humble 

substitute  was  chanting  the  words, — 

"  The  glory  of  the  Lord  shall  be  revealed,  and 
all  flesh  shall  see  the  salvation  of  our  God." 

And  never  had  those  words  seemed  to  Father 
William  to  mean  so  much  as  they  meant  now. 
lie  knelt  at  Father  Alexander's  side.  He  gave 
to  him  the  candle  which  he  bore,  still  burning, 
and  assumed  again  his  part  in  the  sacred  office. 

And  so  the  service  of  triumph  went  on,  the  Com- 
munion and  the  Post-Communion.  And  at  the 
close  Father  William  offered  the  prayer:  — 

"  Grant  us,  O  Lord,  we  pray,  that  we  may  live 
In  the  new  life  of  thine  only  begotten  Son,  in 
whose  heavenly  mystery  we  eat  and  drink  this 
night.  Through  that  same  Lord  we  offer  our 
petitions. " 

And  it  seemed  to  Father  William  that  never  had 
he  known,  as  now,  what  that  New  Life  was.  And 
as,  upon  his  knees,  he  thought  how  a  Gospel  of 
Love  was  lifting  Felicie  from  the  dead  that  night, 
and  who  should  say  how  many  more  of  the  sick 
and  suffering,  the  priest  felt  as  he  had  never  felt 
before  on  the  Vigil  of  the  Nativity,  that  "the 
Loid  had  visited  his  people." 


228 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


CHAPTER  X. 

CHRISTMAS  DAWNS. 

The  blackamoor  was  waiting  at  the  outer  door- 
way for  the  Florentine's  return.  The  master,  he 
said,  was  in  Madame  Waldo's  kitchen,  and  thither 
the  young  man  carried  to  him  the  precious  elixir. 

"  Thank  God  that  you  are  here ! "  said  his 
master,  who,  with  his  outer  garments  off,  was  at 
work  as  a  cook  might  be,  over  the  coals.  "  And 
thank  God  again  that  you  have  this  that  you  are 
sent  for."  He  held  the  dark-red  elixir  to  the 
light,  and  smiled  graciously  and  sweetly  again, 
as  he  saw  its  perfect  clearness  and  the  richness 
of  its  color.  "  Dear  child,  these  sour  watery 
wines  would  not  lie  upon  her  stomach.  You 
were  right  in  using  them  so  sparingly.  I  left  her 
just  now,  after  another  of  these  spasms  you  de- 
scribed to  me.  I  do  not  know  but  I  myself 
brought  it  on.  Yet  I  could  not  have  seen  her  die 
before  mv  eves,  in  linothymy,  for  want  of  stimu 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


22g 


lant  and  reaction.  Now  we  can  quicken  the  beat- 
ing of  her  heart,  without  flooding  her  stomach 
with  sour  grape  juice. 

"  My  faith  began  to  fail  me.  I  knew  she  was 
lost  if  they  had  seized  you,"  he  continued,  as  they 
mounted  the  stair.  "  I  was  at  work  with  the 
dame's  pipkins  and  pans  trying  to  make  a  little 
spirit  pass  over  upon  the  bit  of  earthenware  you 
saw  me  holding.  But  it  was  a  poor  alembic  I  had 
made,  compared  to  that  in  which  this  spirit  was 
distilled." 

And  so  they  entered  the  child's  room  once 
more. 

The  Florentine  was  amazed  himself  to  see 
how  much  she  seemed  to  have  withered  away 
since  he  was  gone.  He  had  been  in  that  cham 
ber  twenty-seven  hours  continuously,  before  he 
left  it.  From  minute  to  minute  he  had  watched 
her  face,  and  so  gradual  had  been  the  decline 
which  that  time  had  wrought  in  it,  that,  from  the 
very  watchfulness  of  his  care,  he  did  not  enough 
appreciate  it.  But  the  hour  of  his  absence  had 
changed  her  terribly.  And  because  he  had  beec 
absent,  he  now  noted  every  detail  of  the  change. 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


Ready  for  his  use,  John  of  Lugio  had  three  of 
tour  silver  spoons  lying  heated  on  the  hearth^ 
close  to  the  embers.  With  a  gloved  hand  he 
took  one  of  these,  dropped  into  it  what  he  thought 
enough  of  his  precious  Christ-sent  elixir,  partially 
cooled  it  for  an  instant  on  the  surface  of  a  full 
cup  of  water,  and  then  poured  the  spirit  with  a 
firm  hand  between  the  close  lips  of  the  child, 
who  never  seemed  to  struggle  when  he  dealt  with 
her.  Jean  Waldo,  from  the  other  side  of  the  bed, 
and  Madame  Gabrielle,  from  the  foot  of  it,  sadly 
watched  the  whole. 

The  adept  placed  his  hand  upon  the  heart  of 
his  patient,  counting  the  pulsations  with  his  eyes 
closed,  and  then,  crossing  the  room,  set  Giulio's 
pendulum  again  in  motion.  There  stole  over  the 
girl's  face  an  expression  which  all  of  them  con- 
strued as  that  of  relief  from  pain.  No  one  of  aJ 
those  watching  her  said  a  single,  word,  as  a  space 
of  time  which  might  have  been  five  minutes  wrent 
by.  But  in  that  time  the  dear  child  twice  turned 
hei  head  on  the  pillow,  as  if  she  would  say,  "  I 
can  sleep  now,"  and  her  whole  expression  cer- 
tainly came  to  indicate  the  absence  of  pain.  The 


/X  J/fS  NAME. 


231 


Florentine  once  and  again  renewed  the  motion  o\ 
the  pendulum  ;  and  his  master,  again  by  the  bed- 
side, as  often  noted  the  pulsation  of  the  sufferer's 
heart,  and  counted  the  heaving  of  her  lungs. 

He  said  nothing.  None  of  them  now  said  any 
thing.  But  at  the  end,  perhaps  of  ten  minutes, 
not  dissatisfied,  as  it  would  seem,  with  the  experi- 
ment, he  heated  again  a  few  drops  of  the  elixir, 
and  again  poured  them  into  her  mouth,  which 
opened  now  without  any  of  the  spasmodic  strug- 
gle which  had  sometimes  checked  their  efforts 
for  her.  The  master  put  his  hand  on  her  fore- 
head, smiled  with  that  tender  smile  which  they 
had  now  all  come  to  look  for  and  hope  for,  and 
then  whispered  to  her  mother,  "  Now  for  your  hot 
clothes  at  her  stomach  and  hot  water  for  her  feet 
again.  If  she  sleeps  she  shall  do  well.  '  Si 
dormit  salva  erit/  he  said  to  Giulio  again  ;  "  there 
is  better  authority  for  that  than  for  any  of  Pope 
Sylvester's  maxims." 

And  then,  rather  in  following  his  example  than 
in  obedience  to  any  former  directions,  they  all 
seated  themselves,  —  the  two  physicians  by  the 
fire,  tne  father  and  mother  by  the  sides  of  the 


232 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


bed,  the  one  attendant  in  the  corner  ;  and  no  one 
spoke  a  word.  The  last  thing  had  been  done 
that  their  skill  or  energy  could  command.  Every 
one  of  the  group  had  done  in  his  best  way  what 
he  could  in  bringing  it  about,  and  every  one  of 
them  knew  that  now  life  or  death  was,  in  no  sense, 
in  their  hands.  In  his  own  fashion,  probably, 
each  of  them  prayed :  even  the  poor  silent  black- 
amoor, to  such  God  as  he  knew ;  the  mother,  to 
the  Virgin  and  St.  Felicie  and  St.  Gabrielle ;  the 
father,  with  a  wretched  consciousness  that  he  had 
hitherto  conceived  that  his  wife  and  daughter 
could  do  all  the  praying  needful  in  that  house, 
or  that  he  could  pay  for  what  more  might  be 
needed ;  the  Florentine,  as  to  the  Spirit  of  Life, 
that  that  living  Spirit  would  so  purify  and  quicken 
the  child's  spirit,  that  flesh  and  blood,  drug  and 
poison,  might  obey  its  requisition  and  command  \ 
and  the  priest,  because  the  wisest  of  them  all, 
with  the  very  simplest  prayer  of  all,  "  Father  of. 
all  of  us,  come  to  us  all." 

There  was  no  method  of  noting  the  passage  of 
time,  unless  they  had  counted  the  beatings  of  theij 
own  hearts  now  that  the  pendulum  of  the  Floren 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


233 


tine  had  been  left  unmoved.  But,  after  a  longer 
space  than  any,  in  which  either  the  girl's  stillness 
or  their  own  anxiety  had  permitted  them  to  sit 
silent  before,  the  master  crossed  to  the  bed  again, 
felt  of  her  head  and  of  her  heart  again,  and  then 
with  his  pleased  smile  nodded  to  his  assistant, 
and,  in  a  whisper,  bade  him  bring  a  larger  draught 
than  they  had  given  of  the  cordial.  He  only  nod- 
ded and  smiled,  as  he  caught  the  anxious  and 
eager  questioning  look  of  Madame  Gabrielle. 
Bat  those  signals  were  enough,  —  and  she,  pooi 
soul,  was  on  her  knees  at  the  bedside,  in  the  most 
voluble  prayer,  though  wholly  silent. 

The  master  indulged  her  for  a  few  moments 
in  these  grateful  devotions,  then  walked  round 
and  touched  her  on  the  shoulder,  and  made  her 
supremely  happy  by  summoning  her  to  duty.  It 
was  simply  that  she  should  place  a  fresh  pillow  on 
the  bed,  and  then,  with  her  stoutest  maid,  should 
lift  the  child  from  the  one  side  of  it  to  the  other, 
that  she  might  have  the  best  chance  for  the  sleep 
which  seemed  now  to  be  nature's  best  restorative.. 
These  cares  ended,  he  banished  Madame  Gabrielle 
absolutely  from  the  room,  and  her  husband  as  weli 


234 


IN  HIS  NAME 


He  bade  the  maid  prepare  a  bed  for  the  Floren 
tine,  as  if  he  were  her  master,  and  sent  them  both 
away.  He  told  the  blackamoor  to  renew  the  heap 
of  wood  by  the  fire,  and  then  to  wait  in  the  cor- 
ridor till  he  was  called.  He  extinguished  all  the 
candles  which  they  had  been  using  in  their  several 
cares,  so  that  he  could  remove  from  the  girl's  bed- 
side the  screens  which  had  kept  the  light  from  her 
eyes.  And  then,  as  the  only  watchman  by  the 
flickering  fire  of  her  earthly  being,  he  threw 
himself  into  one  of  the  deep  arm-chairs  which 
Madame  Gabrielle  had  provided,  and,  in  the 
absolute  stillness  of  the  night,  waited  the  issue 
of  their  efforts  and  their  prayers. 

As  he  looked  into  the  waning  embers  of  the 
fire,  and  saw,  once  and  again,  a  spark  running  in 
its  wayward  course  up  and  down  and  everywhere 
on  the  back  of  the  chimney,  telling  what  the 
children  called  prophetic  tales  to  the  looker- 
on,  —  as  he  looked  back,  were  it  only  on  the 
events  of  that  day,  since  he  was  interrupted  by 
the  charcoal-dealer,  as  he  compared  the  various 
readings  in  St.  Jerome's  Evangelistaries,  but  just 
before  noon,  it  was  as  if  in  to-day's  experience 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


235 


lit)  whole  life  took  order  before  him.  The  master 
iras  not  much  in  the  habit  of  raking  over  the 
ennkt  rs  of  his  past  life,  but  it  was  almost  impos- 
sible not  to  look  into  them  in  the  midst  of  the 
reminiscences  of  such  a  day  as  this. 

Of  the  two  Benedictines  whom  he  had  met  so 
unexpectedly  by  the  postern  gate  of  the  abbey  at 
Cornillon,  one  was  the  companion  even  of  his 
childish  life,  the  son  of  his  father's  nearest  neigh- 
bor. The  master's  memory  did  not  go  back  to  a 
time  before  that,  when,  with  a  little  boy  of  just  his 
own  strength  and  size,  he  dug  in  the  sand-heaps 
by  the  road-side,  or  made  ineffectual  traps  for  the 
sparrows.  With  that  boy  he  had  grown,  —  had 
worked  in  the  simple  farm-life  of  the  fields  around 
Lugio,  —  had,  when  they  were  older,  learned  his 
letters,  and  learned  to  write  at  last.  The  parish 
priest  had  taken  a  fancy  to  both  these  boys,  who 
discouraged  the  noisy  and  mischevious  urchins  of 
the  town,  as  they  all  sat  together  in  the  church, 
and  wondered  when  the  mass  would  be  over.  As 
the  little  fellows  grew  bigger,  the  worthy  man 
selected  these  two  to  be  robed  in  little  robes, 
and  to  carry,  in  the  service,  bell  and  book  and 


236 


IN  HIS  NAMF. 


incense.  He  loved  nothing  better  than  to  walk 
with  them  and  talk  with  them,  now  of  saints  and 
their  battles  and  victories,  now  of  birds  and  snakes 
and  frogs,  or  of  flowers  and  fruits,  as  they  found 
them  in  the  fields  and  woods  and  marshes.  And, 
by  this  selection  of  his,  and  by  their  own  natural 
bent,  it  had  happened,  when  the  other  boys  around 
them  became  masons,  or  vineyard  dressers,  or 
sometimes  carriers  and  merchants'  men  ;  when 
some  of  them  went  into  the  service  of  one  or 
another  of  the  neighboring  gentry,  and  so  showed 
themselves,  on  the  first  holidays,  in  new  jerkins 
or  hauberks,  to  the  wonder  of  the  boys  less 
smartly  dressed,  that  Jean  and  Francois  had  too 
much  to  do  in  the  service  of  the  church,  or  in 
studying  with  the  priest,  or  in  one  or  another 
message  of  his,  sometimes  taking  them  as  far  as 
the  cathedral,  and  into  high  intimacy  with  arch- 
deacons and  canons  ;  had  too  much  of  this  digni- 
fied and  grateful  service  for  them  to  think  or  care 
for  the  more  carnal  lines  of  life  in  which  their 
companions  were  engaging.  Francois,  his  com* 
panion,  under  the  ecclesiastical  name  of  Stephen, 
was  the  older  of  the  Benedictines  he  had  me** 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


237 


that  day.  It  was  in  one  of  those  early  journeys, 
when  he  was  yet  hardly  more  than  a  boy,  that  he 
had  gone  on  some  errand  to  the  great  Monas 
tery  of  Clairvaux,  a  place  not  unfamiliar  to  him, 
and  had  been  actually  there,  awaiting  the  answer 
to  a  message,  when  the  great  Bernard  died,  —  the 
man  to  whom  all  Europe  deferred  more,  as  it 
owed  more,  than  to  any  other.  And  as  the  master 
looked  back,  he  knew  that  it  was  the  lesson  of 
that  hour,  sad  and  solemn,  which  had  determined 
him,  then  and  there,  to  give  up  his  life  to  the  ser- 
vice and  help  of  other  men.  Then  came  on  years 
of  life,  —  impatient  enough  at  the  time,  very 
likely,  but,  as  he  looked  back  upon  them,  sunny 
indeed,  and  crowded  with  incident  and  enjoy 
ment.  The  sailing  down  the  river  with  his  lively 
companions,  of  which  the  Baroness  of  Montferrand 
had  reminded  him,  was  a  fair  enough  illustration 
of  that  life.  And  there  was  a  wrench  at  his  heart 
now,  renewing  many  and  many  a  wrench  of  many 
a  night  of  struggle  at  that  time,  as  he  asked  him- 
self now  for  the  thousandth  time  if — ? 

"If  he  had  then  and  there  given  up  his  deter 
mination  to  make  himself  a  priest ;  if  he  had  ther 


238 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


and  there  asked  his  mother's  goddaughter,  Anne 
of  Thoissey,  —  so  brave  and  true  and  loyal  as  she 
was,  and  so  beautiful  withal,  —  to  share  life  with 
him  ;  and  if  — 

"If  she  had  said,  what  it  sometimes  seemed 
that  she  might  say  ;  and  they  two  together  had 
given  themselves  to  the  service  of  God  and  min- 
istry to  man,  might  it  have  been  that  they  could 
have  rendered  wider  service,  and  made  their  own 
lives  and  other  lives  more  godly,  than  had  hap- 
pened as  it  was  ?  "  He  had  torn  himself  from 
her,  and  with  so  many  of  these  men,  with  whom 
to-day  was  mixing  him  again,  had  entered  on  his 
priestly  training.  And  she,  —  at  this  moment  she 
was  abbess  in  the  Convent  of  Montmerle.  Was 
she  happier  and  better  —  and  was  he  ? 

Then  there  was  all  his  earlier  training  of  man- 
hood, and  the  taking  of  his  vows.  And  the 
memories  of  all  those  young  men  who  then  sur« 
rounded  him  :  they  were  now  canons  and  deacons 
and  bishops  and  archbishops ;  they  were  with 
Philip  and  Richard  in  the  East ;  they  were  the 
heads  of  houses  here  in  the  West ;  yes,  —  and  so 
many  of  them  were  in  heaven  !    How  strangely 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


239 


had  every  one  of  them  falsified  every  prediction 
which,  in  those  days  of  their  novitiate,  they  would 
have  been  sure  to  make  regarding  each  other ! 

And  so  he  came  down  to  the  period  of  a  man's 
activity,  to  what  one  of  our  poets  calls  "the  joy 
of  eventful  living."  Those  happy  days  here  in 
Lyons,  when  he  never  looked  back,  and  scarcely 
ever  looked  forward ;  when  he  found,  at  his  right 
hand  and  at  his  left  hand,  noble  men  and  noble 
women  from  every  grade  in  life,  only  eager  to  serve 
God  as  God  should  show  them  how.  The  practi- 
cal enthusiasm  of  Peter  of  Waldo !  The  discov- 
ery of  new  truth  and  higher  life  which  each  day 
made,  as  they  studied  gospel  and  epistle !  The 
strength  they  all  gained  in  sympathy :  sometimes 
from  the  droll  beggars  who  came  to  them  in  travel  ; 
sometimes  from  women  and  children  who  seemed 
inspired  in  the  very  proportion  of  their  ignorance 
of  books ;  waifs  and  strays  these,  who  came  to 
light,  as  the  "  Poor  Men  of  Lyons  "  assembled  the 
troops  from  highways  and  byways,  from  hedges 
and  ditches,  at  their  Houses  of  Bread  and  Houses 
of  God !  In  the  midst  of  this,  as  if  it  were 
Almost  another  man  whose  life  he  was  recalling. 


240 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


came  the  memories  of  all  those  studies  in  physical 
science,  the  fruits  of  which  he  was  this  night 
using  j  his  journeys  to  Cordova  and  Seville ;  his 
•  interviews  with  the  Cimchis  and  Abulcasis ;  the 
enthusiasm  which  even  Guichard,  now  archbishop, 
showed,  as  in  the  cell  of  Abulcasis  he  and  John 
of  Lugio  together  saw  for  the  first  time  what 
seemed  almost  the  miracle  of  distillation,  and 
their  first  success  in  repeating  that  experiment 
with  the  humble  apparatus  which  they  two  had 
made  for  themselves  !  And  to  think  of  what  had 
passed  since  then !  Guichard  an  archbishop, 
lord  of  the  fief  of  Lyons,  and  John  of  Lugio 
an  exile,  with  a  sword  hanging  over  his  head ! 

And  so  his  memories  ran  down  through  all  the 
days  of  trial.  First,  there  was  the  happy  work 
over  Scripture  with  Peter  Waldo,  with  Bernard  of 
Ydros,  and  with  Stephen  of  Empsa,  Then  the 
journey  to  Rome  with  Peter  Waldo,  and  the  wel- 
come by  Pope  Alexander,  more  than  cordial,  — 
the  welcome  which  gave  such  wings  and  such 
courage  to  their  return.  Then  John  of  Balmeis's 
scorn,  as  he  received  the  Pope's  letter,  his  pre- 
tended inquiry,  and  his  bitter  and  cruel  excommu 


IN  HIS  NAME.  241 

* 

nication.  Then  the  wretched  years  of  suspense, 
more  wretched  than  those  of  certainty  in  exile  \ 
Peter's  second  visit  to  Rome ;  the  council  called 
by  Lucius,  and  its  jealousies ;  the  clergy  against 
the  laymen,  and  the  laymen  scorned  and  rejected. 
"Ah  me  !  "  said  John  of  Lugio,  aloud,  "  it  is  always 
as  it  was  in  the  beginning.  The  carpenter's  shop 
could  gain  no  welcome  in  the  temple  courts,  and 
it  cannot  to-day.  He  was  despised  and  rejected 
of  men." 

Had  he  disturbed  his  patient  by  speaking  ? 
She  turned  on  her  pillow,  and  said,  "  Mamma  ! 
Mamma ! " 

John  of  Lugio  gently  crossed  the  room,  remov- 
ing the  candle  from  its  shelter  as  he  did  so,  that 
she  might  see  him  distinctly,  and  then  he  said,  as 
if  he  had  known  her  all  her  life,  and  was  her  dear 
friend,  "  Your  mamma  is  asleep  now,  dear  child, 
and  she  has  left  me  to  take  care  of  you.  She 
left  this  bunch  of  grapes  for  you  to  wet  your  lips 
with." 

"  Bunch  of  grapes,  — wet  my  lips,"  said  the  girl, 
almost  laughing  at  the  oddity  which  supposed  that 
she,  of  all  people,  needed  nursing  in  the  middle 

16 


242 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


of  the  night ;  and  then  she  tried  to  rise  upon  hei 
elbow,  and  chen  found  she  had  not  just  the  bal- 
ance that  she  needed,  and  dropped  back  upon  her 
pillow.  "  Where  am  I  ?  what  is  it  ?  "  she  asked, 
more  doubtfully. 

"  You  have  been  very  ill,  my  dear  child,  but  you 
are  better  now;  wet  your  lips  with  the  grapes; 
that  will  please  mamma ;  or  let  me  give  you  a 
little  of  the  broth  which  she  left  for  you." 

"  Broth  which  she  left  for  me  ?  Did  not  I  drink 
some  —  herb  drink  which  she  made  for  me  ?  or  — 
or  —  is  that  —  all  that  —  a  horrid  dream  ?  Oh,  sir, 
I  have  had  such  dreams."  And  she  sank  quite 
exhausted  on  the  pillow. 

"  Dear  Felicie,  you  shall  forget  them  all.  Take 
mamma's  broth,  and  take  with  it  a  little  of  this 
cordial,  and  try  to  sleep  again."  There  was  little 
need  for  persuasion.  The  child  lay  almost  im 
rassive  as  he  fed  her ;  thanked  him  then  with  the 
same  prettiness  and  sweetness  with  which  she 
spoke  to  beggar  or  worshipper  on  the  hill  or  in 
the  Church  of  St.  Thomas,  and  in  a  moment  was 
asleep  again.  But  sleep  now  was  so  beautiful 
stud  so  regular,  her  pale  face  had  lost  so  entlrel* 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


2*j 


the  lines  of  agony  and  struggle,  that  the  priest,  as 
he  looked  on,  thanked  God  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
for  the  greatest  of  blessings,  the  return  of  health, 
and  for  the  sight  most  beautiful  of  all  His  gifts, 
—  the  sight  of  a  sleeping  child. 

As  he  returned  to  his  watch  by  the  fire,  the 
silence  of  night  was  broken  by  the  chimes  of  the 
cathedral.  In  an  instant  more  he  heard  the  rival 
chimes  of  the  Abbey  of  He  Barbe,  and  then  the 
peals  from  Felicie's  own  St.  Thomas,  and  then  the 
chimes  of  Ainay,  and  then  the  ringing  of  bells 
that  could  not  be  named,  as  Sts.  Machabees  and 
St.  Nizier  and  St.  Paul,  and  the  tower  of  the 
Augustins,  and  every  church  and  abbey  and  con- 
vent in  all  the  country  around  broke  out  with  joy 
to  announce  that  the  Lord  of  Life  was  born  into 
the  world. 

"Unto  us  a  child  is  born,"  said  John  ot  Lugio, 
reverently. 

Hour  after  hour  his  quiet  watch  went  by.  Wise  as 
he  was,  he  did  not  dream  that  only  on  the  other  side 
of  the  doorway,  crouching  on  a  mattress,  through  all 
these  hours,  was  Madame  Gabrielle,  waiting  foi 
sound  or  signal  which  might  give  her  permissior 


244 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


to  return  to  her  post  at  her  child's  side.  No  !  The 
house  was  so  still,  that  the  wise  man  thought  that 
all  had  obeyed  his  orders,  and  that  all  were  sleep- 
ing. From  hour  to  hour  he  took  such  occasion  as 
the  child's  occasional  restlessness  gave  him  to 
feed  her  with  her  mother's  broth,  and  to  give  the 
precious  stimulant  of  the  Archbishop's  elixir. 
And  she,  dear  girl,  fairly  smiled  in  her  sleep,  once 
and  again,  as  happier  dreams  came  over  her,  and 
as  Nature  asserted  herself,  now  that  the  poison 
was  so  nearly  gone  from  her.  At  last,  as  the 
priest  supposed,  this  night  had  nearly  sped.  He 
drew  the  curtain,  and  he  was  right ;  there  was  a 
gray  light  spread  over  the  east,  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  morning-star  shone  with  beauty  preter- 
natural, with  a  light  so  bright  that  he  could  see  it 
reflected  in  the  river  below.  The  light  was  so 
gentle  that  he  thought  it  would  not  disturb  the 
child.  He  crossed  to  the  door  to  bid  the  black 
call  Madame  Gabrielle.  And  lo,  she  was  already 
there !  He  led  her  to  the  bedside,  that  he  might 
show  to  her  the  glow  of  new  life  upon  Felicie's 
face.  And  just  as  they  approached,  the  child 
opened   her  eyes   again,  and  looked  wistfully 


lN  his  name. 


245 


around,  and  even  sat  up  and  began  to  speak 
"  Mamma,  mamma." 

And  he  delivered  her  to  her  mother. 

With  that  gift  of  life  new  born,  the  Christmas 
day  of  that  home  began. 


246 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


CHAPTER  XL 

TWELFTH  NIGHT. 

When  Twelfth  Night  came,  the  great  hall  of 
Jean  Waldo's  workshop  had  been  cleared  from  all 
its  looms. 

In  their  places  were  three  long  tables,  which 
stretched  from  end  to  end  of  the  long  room,  and 
across  the  top  a  fourth  table,  which  united  these 
together. 

All  through  the  day  the  great  kitchen  was 
crowded  by  the  eager  servants  of  the  household, 
and  all  the  neighbors'  kitchens  were  put  into 
requisition  as  well,  to  furnish  forth  the  most  noble 
feast  which  had  been  seen  in  Lyons  for  many, 
many  years.  Men  even  whispered  that  the  great 
feast,  when  the  Archbishop  entertained  King 
Richard  and  King  Philip,  was  not  so  grand. 

That  morning  Fe'licie,  and  her  mother  and 
father,  and  her  cousin,   Gabrielle  L'Estrange, 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


247 


and  many  others  of  the  family,  —  "too  many 
for  to  name/'  —  had  all  gone  together  in  a 
little  pilgrimage  of  thanksgiving  to  the  cathedral. 
Felicie  had  begged  that  they  would  take  her  to 
her  own  little  eyry  Church  of  St.  Thomas,  on  the 
top  of  the  hill ;  but  no,  that  was  quite  too  far,  even 
though  Felicie  rode  in  the  chariot  which  appeared 
in  public  so  seldom.  At  the  cathedral,  also,  they 
could  be  present  while  the  good  Father  William 
said  mass,  and  their  solemnity  would  hardly  be 
complete  without  him. 

After  this  offering,  they  had  all  returned  to- 
gether to  the  house,  and  there  the  grand  salon 
was  opened,  the  room  which  seemed  to  Felicie 
almost  mysterious,  so  seldom  did  it  see  the  light 
of  day.  And  when  it  did,  she  found  that  it  was 
like  most  other  mysteries,  for  there  was  very  little 
in  it.  But  to-day,  dear  old  Eudes,  who  had  been 
a  sort  of  major-domo,  or  servant-master,  in  Ma- 
dame Waldo's  household,  even  before  Felicie  was 
born,  had  done  his-  best  to  make  it  seem  cheerful. 
At  each  end  a  lordly  fire,  made  of  great  oak  logs, 
blazed  cheerfully.  Eudes  had  sent  the  lads  every- 
where to  bring  laurel  and  other  evergreens  to  hang 


248 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


above  the  chimney-pieces  and  between  the  win 
dows  and  around  the  sconces ;  and  after  they  had 
come  home  from  mass,  when  one  and  another  of 
the  guests  began  to  appear,  whom  Jean  Waldo 
had  summoned  from  far  and  near,  —  as  they  gath- 
ered, at  first  a  little  shyly,  around  one  fireplace  or 
another,  but  soon  unbending  before  the  genuine 
hospitality  of  all  who  were  at  home,  and  as  people 
will  unbend,  in  France  of  all  nations,  when  old 
and  young  meet  in  the  same  company,  —  the 
great  hall  was  then  cheerful  indeed.  The  talk 
was  loud  and  the  merriment  contagious.  Dear 
little  Fe'licie  sat  in  a  great  arm-chair,  with  her  feet 
lifted  upon  a  footstool  \  but  she  did  not  look  as  if 
this  care  were  in  the  least  needful.  Only  her 
mother  and  her  father  seemed  to  feel  that  unless 
they  were  taking  care  of  her,  in  some  visible  fash- 
ion, at  every  moment,  all  might  escape  again,  and 
be  gone.  But  Felicie  had  her  aids,  to  fetch  and 
carry  for  her,  and  to  run  hither  and  thither  with 
her  messages.  She  said  she  meant  to  play  at 
being  queen  upon  her  throne  ;  and,  indeed,  she 
was  so,  pretty  creature,  in  the  midst  of  all  that 
assembly.   Gabrielle  L'Estrange  took  great  airs  as 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


249 


being  a  lady-in-waiting,  and  came  and  whispered, 
and  ran  hither  and  thither,  as  if  her  sover- 
eign's commands  were  most  difficult  of  execu- 
tion. And  for  the  first  hour,  that  shy,  pretty 
Fanchon,  the  daughter  of  Mark  of  Seyssel,  stood 
almost  constantly  at  the  side  of  Felicie's  chair. 
She  was  dressed  in  a  holiday  costume,  such  as 
the  peasants  of  the  hills  were  fond  of  wearing,  so 
simple  and  pretty  and  quaint  that  she  attracted 
everybody's  notice  in  the  midst  of  the  Lyonnaise 
girls,  in  their  more  uniform  costume.  Fanchon 
felt  at  ease  with  Fe'licie  from  the  very  first  kiss. 
It  took  her  longer  to  adjust  herself  to  Gabri- 
elle's  busy,  active,  diplomatic  managing  of  the 
party.  But  Fanchon,  also,  melted  at  last  to  the 
simple  courtesies  and  hospitalities  of  the  place. 
And,  as  the  afternoon  began  to  come  in,  and  the 
winter  sun  crept  in  a  little  at  the  western  win- 
dows, Felicie  had  the  joy  co  see  all  her  guests  — 
for  her  father  said  that  this  was  her  party,  and 
only  hers  —  obeying  the  sound  of  pipe  and  tabor 
and  harp,  and  dancing  merrily,  from  one  end  oi 
the  hall  to  the  other.  Always  there  was  a  little 
court  clustered  around  her  throne.    But  always  she 


250 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


would  order  them  away,  in  such  couples  as  it 
pleased  her  Majesty  to  select,  and  send  them  out 
again  "to  try  the  adventure"  of  the  dance,  she 
said.  "  To  try  "  this  or  that  "  adventure  "  was  the 
standard  phrase  of  the  romances  of  the  trouba* 
dours,  with  whom  Felicie  and  her  young  friends, 
and,  indeed,  all  the  company,  were  wholly  fa* 
miliar. 

And,  before  the  early  winter  sun  went  down, 
others  joined  in  the  festival,  so  that  when  Eudes 
came  bustling  in,  to  tell  Madame  Waldo  that  all 
was  ready  at  the  tables,  Father  John  of  Lugio  was 
one  of  her  guests  again.  And  she  brought  him 
to  her  daughter,  and,  in  that  sweet,  courteous  way 
of  his,  he  told  her  Majesty  that  he  was  bidden  to 
take  her  to  the  supper-room,  and  asked  her  to 
lead  with  him  the  procession.  And  then,  even  to 
Felicie's  amazement,  and  almost  to  her  terror, 
Father  William  appeared  also,  whom  she  had  not 
seen  before,  and  Father  William  followed  close  on 
Father  John,  giving  his  hand  to  Felicie's  mother. 
And  then  the  order  required  that  Giulio  the  Flor- 
entine should  lead  in  Madame  L'Estrange,  who 
wondered  indeed  herself  at  finding  herself  so  pro 


IN  HIS  NAME, 


251 


vided  for ;  and  then  the  other  guests  followed,  in 
many  a  combination  quite  as  strange.  In  a  few 
minutes  all  were  ordered :  Felicie  at  her  mother's 
side,  and  on  their  right  and  left  the  two  priests  , 
die  Florentine  and  Madame  L'Estrange ;  the 
Baron  of  Montferrand  and  the  Lady  Alix.  Even 
the  two  monks,  Stephen  and  Hugh,  had  obtained 
some  sort  of  dispensation  from  their  convent,  and 
were  here  ;  Gualtier  of  the  Mill  was  here  ;  Mark 
of  Seyssel  and  his  wife  and  all  his  children,  down 
to  Hubert,  were  here ;  poor  Prinhac  was  here, 
with  his  arm  in  a  sling ;  the  officer  of  the  night, 
who  threw  up  the  portcullis  so  promptly,  was  here, 
and  the  sentinel  who  held  the  gate.  Here  was 
the  farmer  of  the  hill-side.  Here  was  every  groom 
what  had  cared  for  the  horses  who  that  day  sped 
so  well ;  here  was  the  boy  who  rode  Cceur-Blanc 
into  the  stable,  when  Father  Jean  was  afraid  to 
be  seen  \  here  wras  Father  Alexander,  who  crossed 
the  blazing  chancel  so  fearlessly  with  the  Floren- 
tine. Here  was  every  messenger  who  had  been 
sent  on  that  sad  night  for  Felicie's  father  and  for 
the  doctor;  every  neighbor  who  had  brought  in 
oil  or  snow  or  herbs  for  her  relief;  every  maid 


252 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


who  had  warmed  a  plate  for  her.  Here  were  tha 
trouvere  and  Antoine.  Seven-score  guests  were 
assembled,  of  every  degree,  —  gentlemen  and 
grooms,  ladies  and  scullion-maids.  The  invita- 
tions had  been  given  with  diligent  care  to  every 
one  who  had  done  any  thing,  in  that  night  of  trial, 
which  had  helped  our  darling  F61icie,  and  to  every 
one  who  had  tried  to  do  so. 

Father  William  asked  God's  blessing  on  the 
feast ;  and  with  great  merriment  and  joy  it  went 
forward.  The  young  men  and  the  girls  had  every 
sort  of  joke  about  the  Twelfth-Night  presents, 
which  they  had  secretly  brought  for  each  other  j 
and,  at  the  last,  there  was  great  ceremony  and 
rivalry  as  to  who  should  have  the  sacred  bean, 
which  was  baked  in  the  Twelfth  cake,  which 
Felicie  pretended  to  cut,  and  which  was,  in  truth, 
cut  by  the  strong  right  arm  of  John  of  Lugio. 

No  ;  there  was  no  manner  of  cheating  or  forc- 
ing, and  the  bean  fell  to  the  pretty  Fanchon,  — 
Mark's  daughter,  — who  blushed  almost  as  red  as 
her  own  bright  ribbons  when  Philip  L' Estrange 
brought  to  her  the  bean  on  a  silver  plate,  and 
made  to  her  a  low  bow  and  a  flourishing  speech. 


IN  HJS  NAME. 


253 


in  which  he  said  that  her  Majesty  Queen  Ftflicic 
sent  it  with  her  royal  regards  to  her  Majesty 
Queen  Fanchon.  The  feasting  went  on  and  the 
fun  went  on,  and  no  one  seemed  to  enjoy  the* 
feasting  or  the  fun  more  than  Jean  Waldo  him 
self,  though  he  sat  at  neither  table,  but  passed 
about  from  guest  to  guest,  with  a  napkin  on  his 
arm,  as  one  of  the  servants,  bringing  here  a  plate 
and  there  a  cup,  and  urging  all  to  eat  and  drink, 
and  only  happy  as  he  saw  that  his  guests  were 
happy,  and  were  provided  for. 

And  when  the  feasting  seemed  to  be  nearly 
ended,  not  because  the  bountiful  stores  provided 
had  failed,  but  because  there  is  an  end  even  to  a 
Twelfth-Night  appetite,  Jean  Waldo  came  round 
and  stood  by  John  of  Lugio,  and  whispered  to 
him,  and  then  the  Father  rose,  and  asked  for 
silence,  which  awaited  him,  of  course.  And  he 
said,  nearly  what  I  have  said,  that  this  was 
Fe'licie's  feast,  and  that  her  father  had  given  it 
for  her,  as  his  simplest  way  of  showing  honor  to 
all  who  had  prayed  for  her  and  toiled  for  her  on 
the  terrible  night  when  her  life  was  in  danger, 
"  Ha  wants  to  thank  you  all  and  to  promise  you 


254 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


his  best  prayers  for  your  welfare  in  all  your  lives 
He  is  afraid  he  cannot  say  what  he  would  fain 
say,"  said  the  master,  "  and  so  he  bids  me  say  it 
for  him  to  you  all."  And  there  was  great  clap- 
ping of  hands  from  all  the  guests  at  all  the  tables, 
and  they  ail  cried,  "  He  is  welcome,  he  is  wel- 
come," and  some  cried,  "  Long  life  to  the  lady 
Felicie."  And  poor  Felicie  was  crying,  as  if  her 
heart  was  breaking,  though  her  face  seemed  so 
happy  all  the  while.  And  her  mother  held  her 
hand,  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  was  breaking 
too. 

And  then  Jean  Waldo  waved  his  hand  and 
said :  "  I  do  not  know  how  to  speak  as  these 
Fathers  do.  But  I  must  try.  I  must  thank  you 
all,  —  all  of  you,  with  all  my  heart,  that  my  darling 
is  here,  and  that  we  are  all  so  happy.  Ah,  my 
friends,"  he  said,  "  you  know  me  for  a  hard  man, 
who  has  said  to  you  a  thousand  times  that  I 
would  take  care  of  my  affairs,  if  other  people 
would  take  care  of  theirs.  Oh,  my  God,  I  have 
said  it  again  and  again,  —  I  know  not  how  often 
I  have  said  it  to  those  who  are  in  this  company. 
But  I  learned  every  thing,  I  think,  on  the  eve  o/ 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


255 


Noel.  In  those  terrible  nights  I  learned  that 
I  wanted  others  —  Oh,  how  many  others  —  to 
take  care  of  me  and  of  my  dearest  concerns  ;  yes, 
though  they  risked  their  lives  for  it,  as  my  friend 
here  did  so  bravely.  And  as  those  slow  hours 
went  by,  I  prayed  to  my  God,  and  I  promised  Him, 
that  whether  my  darling  lived  or  died, — whether 
she  lived  with  me  here,  or  with  His  angels  there,  — 
for  me,  I  would  live  from  that  day  forward  for  all 
my  brothers  and  all  my  sisters :  for  you,  and  for 
you,  and  for  you  ;  yes,  for  all  his  children,  if  I 
could  help  them.  But,  dear  friends,  I  could  not 
begin  to  do  this,  without  asking  Him  to  forgive  me, 
and  you  to  forgive  me,  that  so  often  I  have  said 
I  would  care  for  myself,  if  the  others  for  them- 
selves would  care.  I  could  not  begin  to  live  for 
the  rest,  without  asking  the  rest  to  pardon  me 
that  I  had  lived  for  myself  before.  And  so,  at 
little  Fe'licie's  feast,  I  ask  her,  and  I  ask  you,  as 
I  ask  the  good  God,  to  show  me  how  to  take 
care  for  others,  and  to  show  others  how  to  take 
care  of  me." 

Some  of  the  guests  were  seeping,  and  some  oi 
them  were  clapping  their  hands,  and  some  oi 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


them  were  shouting,  "  Long  life  to  our  host,  long 
life  to  Master  Jean.  But  Father  William,  who 
was  standing  with  the  tears  running  down  his 
cheeks,  waved  his  hand ;  and  they  were  all  so 
amazed  that  he  who  acted  as  archbishop  should 
be  here  at  all,  most  of  all  that  he  should  sit  and 
stand  so  near  to  John  of  Lugio,  that  they  all 
stopped  their  shouting,  that  they  might  listen. 
And  he  smiled  drolly,  and  as  if  he  had  a  secret, 
upon  them  all,  till  he  saw  that  all  were  very  curi- 
ous ;  and  then,  with  his  ringer,  he  drew  in  the  air 
the  sign  of  the  Cross  of  Malta ;  and  then  he  said, 
"  I  will  teach  our  brother  how  to  forget  himself,  and 
Aow  to  live  for  others.  What  he  does,  let  him  do 
6  for  the  love  of  Christ ; 1  and  whom  he  welcomes, 
let  him  welcome 

In  His  Name." 

And  then,  passing  behind  Madame  Waldo  and 
little  Felicie,  he  threw  his  own  arm  about  John 
of  Lugio's  neck,  turned  him,  all  surprised  as  he 
was,  so  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  him,  and 
kissed  him. 

Oh,  the  cneenng  and  clapping,  the  tears  and  the 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


257 


surprise!  To  those  who  were  initiated,  the  won- 
der was  how  the  reigning  Prince  of  Lyons  had 
come  upon  their  secret.  To  those  whose  eyes 
were  only  partly  opened  to  what  Jean  Waldo  had 
seen  so  clearly  in  those  visions  of  his  terrible 
night-watches,  it  was  as  if  Saladin  and  Philip  had 
kissed  each  other  on  the  Mount  of  Olives.  To 
those  initiates,  who  were  as  bigoted  in  their  way 
as  was  Montferrand,  it  was  all  amazement  that  an 
Archbishop  of  Lyons,  or  any  one  who  sat  in  an 
archbishop's  throne,  should  have  any  heart,  or 
should  speak  aught  but  evil.  To  the  churchmen, 
as  to  Alexander  and  Hugh  and  Stephen,  it  was 
relief  unspeakable.  For  here  was  their  chief, 
doing  more  than  they  had  done  to  express  sym- 
pathy and  love  which  they  were  yearning  to  offer 
to  all. 

John  of  Lugio  himself  did  not  seem  surprised. 
With  an  eager  embrace  he  returned  the  embrace, 
—  with  a  second  kiss  upon  William's  cheek  he 
returned  the  kiss.  "  Ah  !  "  said  he,  "  the  kingdom 
of  God  has  truly  come.  The  city  of  God  is  res- 
cued, and  we  are  in  it  now.  Heaven  can  offer  us 
nothing  sweeter  than  we  have  here.    You  will 

17 


258 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


never  misunderstand  us,  William  ;  we  shall  nevei 
misunderstand  you.  What  you  ask  of  us  we  shall 
perform ;  for  you  will  ask  *  for  the  love  of 
Christ,'  and  we  shall  answer 


In  His  Name.' 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


2S9 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE  WHOLE  STORY. 


My  uncle  Adrian  had  bi ought  us  home  this  story 
which  you  have  been  reading  from  the  city  of 
Lyons.  Fie  had  walked  over  every  inch  of  the 
ground  that  Fe'licie  had  tripped  over,  that  Giulio 
and  Jean  Waldo  had  hurried  over,  that  the  Canon 
William  had  passed  over  as  he  bore  his  weird 
candle  through  the  darkness :  he  had  crossed  the 
short  bridge  and  the  long  bridge ;  he  had  seen  the 
site  of  Jean  Waldo's  workshops ;  had  climbed  to 
the  Church  of  St.  Thomas,  which  is  now  "  Our 
Lady  of  Fourvieres ; "  he  had  crossed  himself 
there,  and  had  seen  there  the  fresh  votive  offer- 
ings, which  young  soldiers  have  hung  there,  whom 
Our  Lady  saved  from  wounds  in  the  Prussian  war. 
My  uncle  had  looked  across  the  valley  of  the 
Rhone,  to  see  the  distant  Mont  Blanc,  near  thirty 
leagues  away. 


26o 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


He  had  been  through  those  Dauphin  Mourv 
tains,  and  the  scarped  hills  to  the  north  of  them  j 
dowr;  the  valley  of  the  Brevon  and  the  Alberine, 
and  along  the  Rhone,  crossing  it  back  and  forth 
twice,  just  as  Father  John  of  Lugio  did.  lie 
would  not  say  that  he  had  found  the  charcoal  hut 
of  Mark  of  Seyssel,  but  he  would  say  that  he  had 
been  on  the  place  where  it  might  very  well  have 
been. 

Then  he  had  spent  a  happy  day,  how  happy,  in 
that  quiet  but  cheerful  old  library  at  Lyons,  where 
nobody  cared  about  Peter  Waldo,  but  where  all 
were  as  ready  to  serve  my  uncle  as  if  he  had  been 
Henry  Fifth  himself.  He  is  about  the  age  of  the 
Fifth  Henry.  And  here  he  studied  Claude  Fran 
cis  Menestrier's  ponderous  civil  or  consular  his- 
tory of  Lyons,  while  the  full-length  portrait  of  the 
benevolent  Claude  Francis  Menestrier  smiled  on 
him  from  the  wall  above.  He  studied  Montfalcon's 
Monuments  of  Lyons,  magnificent  in  its  apparel 
and  precision.  And  was  it,  perhaps,  M.  Mont- 
falcon  himself  who  showed  such  courtesy  to  my 
uncle,  though  his  French  was  so  bad,  and  he  a 
stranger  without  introduction  ?    Then  he  studied 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


pamphlet  upon  pamphlet  of  indignant  men  who 
had  to  reply  to  M.  Montfalcon  for  this  and  for 
that,  for  which  this  reader  need  not  care,  so  that 
my  uncle  well  understood  that  the  flame  which 
Peter  Waldo  and  John  of  Lugio,  and  the  other 
u  Poor  Men  of  Lyons,"  lighted,  was  not  a  flame 
which  burned  out  in  one  century,  nor  in  two,  nor 
in  five.  Nay,  when  my  uncle  went  into  the  street, 
and  found  that  the  City  Council  were  trying  to 
lock  out  the  Government  Prefect  from  their  own 
old  town  hall,  he  thought  the  old  flame  seemed  to 
be  burning  still. 

And  many  a  map  of  brook  and  river  and  moun 
tain  had  my  uncle  brought  home,  —  and  many  a 
sketch  and  photograph  which  we  have  not  shown 
to  you.  He  had  many  a  story  of  those  who  be- 
friended John  of  Lugio  and  Peter  Waldo,  in  their 
time.  And  long  stories  he  had  to  tell  us  of  this 
hidden  valley,  and  that  defended  cave,  in  which 
one  ^r  another  of  the  "  Poor  Men  of  Lyons,"  or  of 
those  Waldenses,  who,  for  centuries  after,  de- 
fended the  same  faith,  had  hidden ;  but  these 
things  had  nothing  to  do  with  our  iittle  Felicie's 
Christmas  and  Twelfth  Night,  so  that,  as  my  uncle 


2t>2 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


writes  out  her  story  for  you,  they  are  not  wri<  ten 
down. 

It  was  on  two  warm  September  evenings,  as  we 
were  all  at  the  New  Sybaris,  by  the  sea-shore,  — 
two  of  those  evenings  when  we  can  have  every 
window  open,  but  when,  so  early  is  the  sunset, 
there  are  two  or  three  hours  after  tea  before  it  is 
bedtime,  —  it  was  on  two  such  evenings  that  my 
uncle  read  to  us  the  story  of  Felicie,  of  Jean 
Waldo,  of  Giulio  the  Florentine,  of  the  ride  to  the 
hills,  and  the  charcoal-burner's  hut,  of  John  oi 
Lugio  and  of  Christmas  eve,  as  poor  Felicie 
spent  it,  and  as  the  Canon  William  spent  it ;  and 
then  of  Christmas  morning,  and  of  Felicie's 
Twelfth-Night  Feast,  —  the  story  which  you  have 
just  now  read,  dear  reader,  to  which  you  and 
give  the  title, 

"In  His  Name." 

My  boy  Philip  had  been  permitted  to  sit  up 
later  than  usual,  to  hear  the  end  of  the  Twelfth 
Night  Feast.  When  it  was  finished,  his  mothei 
bade  him  take  his  candle,  but  he  lingered  a  mo 
ment  to  ask  his  uncle  the  inevitable  question 
"  Is  it  true,  Uncle  Adrian  ? " 


IN  IlfS  NAME. 


2C3 


M I  do  not  know  why  not,"  said  my  uncle 
*  Peter  of  Waldo  was  driven  out,  just  thus  and  so. 
and  John  of  Lugio  with  him,  —  two  men  of  whom 
the  world  was  not  worthy.  Richard  and  Philip 
.vent  to  the  Crusade  just  there  and  then,  and 
broke  down  the  bridge  as  the  story  tells  you. 
Averroes  and  Abulcasis,  and  a  dozen  others  like 
them,  had,  just  then,  set  every  man  of  sense  in 
Europe  on  the  studies  which  turned  the  old 
quackeries  of  medicine  upside  down.  And  the 
'  Poor  Men  of  Lyons,'  and  their  associates  in  the 
mountains,  had  to  protect  themselves  with  all 
their  wits,  I  can  tell  you,  and  with  more  pass- 
words than  the  story  tells  you  of,  as  they  went 
back  and  forth  from  city  to  mountain.  Which 
Canon  William  took  the  Dean's  place  when  he 
was  away,  the  story  does  not  tell,  and  I  do  not 
know,  but  it  was  some  canon  or  other.  Whether 
Cceur-Blanc's  feet  were  white  or  black,  the  story 
does  not  tell,  and  I  do  not  know  ;  nor  whether 
Mark's  daughter  Fanchon  were  fifteen  or  sixteen 
But  this  is  true,  I  am  sure,  that  none  of  them  in 
the  end  failed  who  did  any  thing  '  for  the  love  ol 
Christ,'  if  they  could  find  anybody  to  join  them 

IN  HIS  NAME." 


264 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


u  My  dear  Philip,'*  said  his  Aunt  Priscilla, 
u  there  has  been  just  the  same  story  going  on  in 
this  last  week,  here  under  your  nose,  only  you 
have  been  too  busy  with  your  boat  and  your  gun 
to  *ee  it  or  hear  it." 

Going  on  here,  dear  aunt  ?  " 

u  It  is  always  going  on,  Philip.  Jesus  Christ  is 
giving  life  more  abundantly^  and  awakening  the 
dead  now,  just  as  he  said  he  would.  When  Dr. 
Sargent  gets  up  at  midnight,  and  rides  behind  the 
old  gray  twenty  miles  before  morning,  to  poor  old 
Mrs.  Fetridge's  bedside,  do  you  suppose  he  does 
it  because  he  thinks  the  town  will  pay  him  half  a 
dollar  for  going?  He  does  it  because  Jesus 
Christ  bade  him  do  it,  though  very  likely  he 
never  says  he  does  it  'for  the  love  of  Christ/ 
or  in  his  name.  When  Mr.  Johnson  sent 
down  the  mustard  that  I  put  on  Mary's  chest 
last  night,  sharp  mustard  and  fiery,  instead  of 
sending  saw-dust  colored  with  turmeric,  do  you 
suppose  he  did  it  to  save  your  father's  custom  ? 
He  did  it  because  he  would  rather  die  than  cheat 
any  man  out  of  the  shadow  of  a  penny.  And 
tfiat  comes  from  what  your  father  John  would 


IN  HIS  NAME. 


265 


have  called  *  the  love  of  Christ,'  and  working  in 
his  namk.  Or  when  the  expressman  came  in 
afoot  last  night,  with  the  telegram  from  Kingston, 
when  his  team  had  broken  down,  because  he 
was  afraid  it  was  important,  do  you  think  he 
walked  those  five  miles  because  anybody  hired 
him  ?  He  did  not  make  any  Cross  of  Malta,  and 
he  did  not  speak  any  password  at  the  door  ;  but, 
all  the  same,  the  good  fellow  did  his  message  for 
1  the  love  of  Christ/  and  never  would  have  done 
it  if  he  had  not  lived  and  moved,  his  life  long, 
among   people   who   are   confederated   in  his 

NAME. 

"  Five  hundred  years  hence,  dear  Phil,  they 
will  publish  a  story  about  you  and  me.  We  shall 
seem  very  romantic  then  ;  and  we  shall  be  worth 
reading  about,  if  what  we  do  is  simple  enough 
and  brave  enough  and  loving  enough  for  anybody 
to  think  that  we  do  it  '  for  the  love  of  Christ/  or 
for  anybody  to  guess  that  we  had  been  bound 
together 


In  His  Name  99 


APPENDIX. 


The  statement  in  the  text  at  page  107,  that  no  man 
knows  the  after  history  of  Stephen  of  Empsa  and  Ber- 
nard of  Ydros,  seemed  to  me  quite  justified  at  the 
time  I  wrote  it.  It  was  justified  not  only  by  all  the 
familiar  authorities,  but  by  those  less  familiar,  to  which 
1  found  access  in  a  visit  to  Lyons  in  the  fall  of  1873. 
But  since  the  publication  of  the  earlier  editions  of  this 
book  I  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  find  in  the 
Boston  Public  Library  an  anonymous  tract  on  "  The 
Poor  Men  of  Lyons,'1  written  by  a  Roman  Catholic 
priest,  which  happens  to  mention  the  fate  of  Stephen 
of  Empsa,  whom  he  calls  Stephen  of  Erisa.  He  seems 
ro  have  got  promotion  as  the  reward  of  his  abandon 
ment  of  Peter  Waldo.  In  his  prosperity,  he  built  him 
a  house  ;  and  this  house  was  so  high  that,  when  he 
fell  from  the  flat  roof  of  it  before  it  was  finished,  he 
killed  himself.  This  would  have  been  a  good  dramatic 
end  for  him,  had  I  continued  the  story.  The  whole 
passage  in  this  anonymous  tract  is  so  curious,  that  I 
copy  it.     The  title  is  :  — 

"  Tractatus  de  Haeresi  Pauperum  de  Lugduno 
auctore  anonymo  de  Libro  Fratris  Stephani  de  Bella- 
villa  accipiantur  ista." 


268 


APPENDIX. 


"Bernard,  a  poor  scholar,  wrote  out  the  Gospels  in 
the  Gallic  language,  for  a  certain  rich  citizen  of  Lyons, 
who  was  called  Waldensis,  —  and  also  some  passages 
from  the  Saints  set  in  order,  —  and  a  certain  gramma- 
rian named  Stephen  of  Erisa  translated  these,  for  the 
same  citizen,  into  the  Roman  language  He  after- 
wards received  a  benefice  in  the  greater  church  of 
Lyons,  and  was  promoted  to  the  priesthood,  and  then, 
by  a  fall  from  the  flat  roof  of  a  house  which  he  was 
building,  he  suddenly  died.  This  man  called  Walden- 
sis and  those  who  clung  to  him  were  disseminating 
the  Scripture,  by  preaching  to  all  poor  people  ;  and 
were  warned  to  desist  by  John  the  Archbishop  of 
Lyons.  But  they  would  not  stop,  and  therefore  they 
were  excommunicated  and  banished  from  the  coun- 
try. Then,  being  pertinacious,  they  were  pronounced 
schismatics  n  an  ante-Lateran  council  held  at  Rome, 
and  afterwards  were  condemned  as  heretics.  This 
sect  began  about  the  year  of  the  Incarnation,  nSo, 
onder  John  of  Belesmains,  Aichbishop  of  Lyons." 


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"  This  book  is  certainly  very  enjoyable.  It  delineates  American  life  so 
graphically  that  we  feel  as  if  Mr.  Hale  must  have  seen  every  rood  of 
ground  he  describes,  and  must  have  known  personally  every  character 
he  so  cleverly  depicts." — New  Church  Magazine. 

MR.  TANGIER'S  VACATIONS.  A  Novel.  i6mo. 
#1.25.  Paper,  50  cts. 
"Of course  the  book  has  a  purpose,  the  one  great  and  beautiful  pur- 
pose for  which  Mr.  Hale  has  lived  and  preached  and  written  and  talked 
all  his  life,— to  induce  people  to  help  each  other,  to  work  together  in 
order  to  make  life  better,  more  sunny,  and  happier  in  every  way  for  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men." —  Worcester  Spy. 

FOUR  AND  FIVE.    A  Story.    i6mo.  #1.00 

"  This  story  is  a  continuation  of  the  already  popular  1  Ten  Times 
One'  series,  by  the  same  author." 

THE    NEW    HARRY    AND    LUCY.     A  Story  of 
Boston  in  the  Summer  of  189 1.    By  Edward  E.  Hale  and 
Lucretia   P.  Hale.    With   illustrations  by  Herbert  D. 
Hale.    i6mo.  $1.25. 
"Dr.  E.  E.  Hale's  story  of  the  Boston  of  to-day,  'The  New  Harry 
and  Lucy,'  in  which  Miss  Susan   Hale,  his  sister,  has  collaborated,  is 
eminently  characteristic.     Had  it  appeared    anonymously,  many  would 
have  rcognized  its  author  at  once.    Indeed,  those  of  us  who  know  any- 
thing of  its  author's  experiences  during  the  last  year  will  enjoy  following 
him — rather  than  'Harry'  and  'Lucy'-— to  the    commencement  of 
*  Clark  University,'  to  the  funeral  of  James  Russell   Lowell,  and  to  Sir 
Edwin  Arnold's  readings.    It  is  Dr.  Hale's  own  original  criticisms  on 
men  and  things  which  make  the  book  valuable.     With  a  few  fictitious 
names  left  out,  the  book  might  stand  as  Dr.  Hale's  journal  of  1891." — 
Literary  World. 

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ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Boston. 


EDWARD  E.  HALE'S  WRITINGS. 


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OUR  NEW  CRUSADE.    i6mo.  £1.00. 

"  It  has  all  the  characteristics  of  its  brilliant  author, —  unflagging  en* 
tertainment,  helpfulness,  suggestive,  practical  hints,  and  a  contagious 
vitality  that  sets  one's  blood  tingling.  The  gist  of  the  book  is  to  show 
how  possible  it  is  for  the  best  spirits  of  a  community,  through  wise  organ- 
ization, to  form  themselves  into  a  lever  by  means  of  which  the  whole  tone 
of  the  social  status  may  be  elevated,  and  the  good  and  highest  happiness 
of  the  helpless  many  be  attained  through  the  self-denying  exertions  of  the 
powerful  few  " — Souther 71  Churchman. 

HOW  TO  DO  IT.    161110.  gi.oo. 

"  We  do  not  see  how  either  sex  can  fail,  after  reading  his  pages,  to 
know  How  to  Talk,  How  to  Write,  How  to  Read,  How  to  go  into 
Society,  and  How  to  Travel.  These,  with  Life  at  School,  Life  in  Vaca- 
tion, Life  Alone,  Habits  in  Church,  Life  with  Children,  Life  with  your 
Elders,  Habits  of  Reading,  and  Getting  Ready,  are  the  several  topics 
of  the  more  than  as  many  chapters." — Congregationalist. 

CRUSOE  IN  NEW  YORK,  and  other  Stories.  i6mc 
#1.00. 

M  If  one  desires  something  unique,  full  of  wit,  a  veiled  sarcasm  that  is 
rich  in  the  extreme,  it  will  all  be  found  in  this  charming  little  book. 

THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A  COUNTRY,  and  other 
Tales.    161110.    #1.25.    Paper  covers,  50  cts. 

u  A  collection  of  those  strange,  amusing,  and  fascinating  stories,  which 
in  their  simplicity  of  narrative,  minute  detail,  allusion  to  passing  occur- 
rences, and  thorough  naturalness,  make  us  almost  feel  that  the  differ- 
ence between  truth  and  fiction  is  not  worth  mentioning.  Mr.  Hale  is  the 
prince  of  story-tellers ;  and  the  marvel  is  that  his  practical  brain  can 
have  such  a  vein  of  frolicsome  fancy  and  quaint  humor  running  through 
it.  It  will  pay  any  one  to  think  while  reading  these." — Universalist 
Quarterly. 

THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A  COUNTRY.  Illustrated. 
By  Frank  T.  Merrill.  4to.  $1.50.  The  same  (School 
Edition),  paper  covers,  30  cts. 

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EDWARD  E.  HALE'S  WRITINGS. 


•  ♦ 

TEN  TIMES  ONE  IS  TEN:  The  Possible  Reforma- 
tion. A  new  edition,  in  two  parts.  Parti.  The  Story.  Part 
II.  Harry  Wadsworth  and  Wadsworth  Clubs.  i6mo.  $1.00. 
Paper  covers,  25  cts. 

HARRY  WADSWORTH'S  MOTTO. 

"To  look  u~  and  not  down;  To  look  out  and  not  in  ;  and 

To  look  forward  and  not  back  ;     To  lend  a  hand. 
"  The  four  rules  are  over  my  writing-desk  and  in  my  heart.  Every 
school  boy  and  girl  of  age  to  understand  it  should  have  this  story,  and 
if  I  was  rich  enough,  should  have  it." — Extract  from  a  letter  by  an 
unknown  correspondent. 

MRS.  MERRIAM'S  SCHOLARS.  A  story  of  the 
"  Original  Ten."    i6mo.  $1.00. 

"  It  is  almost  inevitable  that  such  a  book  as  '  Ten  Times  One  is  Ten  ' 
should  suggest  others  in  the  same  line  of  thought;  and  Mr.  Hale  begins 
in  'Mrs.  Merriam's  Scholars'  to  take  up  a  lew  of  what  he  terms  the 
'dropped  stitches'  of  the  narrative.  The  story  is  exceedingly  simple,  so 
far  as  concerns  its  essentials,  and  carries  the  reader  forward  with  an 
interest  in  its  motive  which  Mr.  Hale  seldom  fails  to  impart  to  his 
writings." 

FRANKLIN  IN  FRANCE.  From  Original  Docu- 
ments, most  of  which  are  now  published  for  the  first  time. 
Part  I.  The  Alliance.  Part  II.  The  Treaty  of  Peace  and 
Franklin's  Life  till  his  Return.  With  several  newly  engraved 
portraits  of  Franklin  from  copies  which  are  now  quite  rare, 
and  numerous  portrait-illustrations  throughout  the  text.  2 
vols.  8vo.    $3.00  per  volume.    Half  calf,  #5.00. 

SEVEN  SPANISH  CITIES,  and  the  Way  to  Them. 
i6mo.  $1.25. 

"The  Rev.  E.  E.  Hale's  'Spanish  Cities'  is  in  the  author's  most 
lively  style,  full  of  fun,  with  touches  of  romance,  glimpses  of  history,  allu- 
sions to  Oriental  literature,  earnest  talk  about  religion,  consideration  of 
Spanish  politics,  and  a  rapid,  running  description  of  everything  that 
observant  eyes  could  possibly  see." — Boston  Advertiser. 

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